


What to Expect when You're Expecting During a Coup d'Etat

by the_desk_fairy



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe: January 2021, American Coup, Discussion of Abortion, F/F, F/M, Falling in love while running for your life, Far Right Takeover, Far Right Xenophobia/Ideology, Mass Shooter Event, Militarization of Police, Portland Oregon, Sharing a Bed, Surviving the apocalypse together, Touch as a trauma response, University of Idaho, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28583433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_desk_fairy/pseuds/the_desk_fairy
Summary: Rose Tico is knocked up, and I’m the father.Then America goes to shit.How does one find a pregnant engineering student on a burning campus when the streets are filled with a militarized police and rioting citizens with guns?I have absolutely no fucking idea, but I’d better figure it out quick.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Rose Tico, Dopheld Mitaka/Phasma, Kaydel Ko Connix/Rey
Comments: 57
Kudos: 39





	1. Denial

**Author's Note:**

> Mkay, so I normally want to keep the political stuff more subtle in fic, but I'm a lil anxious about how things are gonna go down in a few weeks. I'm just dealing with my anxiety by wrapping a horrible scenario in a pretend story that's mostly about love and feelings. 
> 
> So here is one of my favorite tropes with my worst nightmare! Yay! 
> 
> Here we go.

“It surprised me too,” she says. “I’ve been so stressed with finishing my thesis that I didn’t notice the symptoms, I guess. I’m 14 weeks.”

Shock drowns me. Its heat swims around in my body, burning my skin: no doubt appearing in awful red blotches on my face and neck —thank god, I’m wearing a scarf. The accusing chatter of starlings in a tree across the park fills my ears.

I don’t know what to think, much less what to say. Dryness fuses my mouth shut.

Rose studies me, brushing aside a loose wave of glossy black hair toyed in the wind.

Her velvet brown eyes dim, she leans against the bench’s curled iron back, a puff of steam pluming from her lips. A guarded shadow descends over her face and I know I’m fucking this up.

_ Damn it, man, say something! _

“This won’t be a problem for you,” she says thinly. “I’ll make an appointment and take care of it.”

“You’re not a problem,” I blurt. “I mean…” Fuck. “I was hoping to see you again… after that night.”

Embarrassment flashes across her face and the truth punches me square in the gut.

_ She didn’t want to see me again. _

“Oh, fuck…” I die and go straight to hell. “What I meant to say was, I support you in whatever choice you decide.”

Blood kerthumps in my ears. I squeeze my fists so tightly, my leather gloves crinkle and squeak. My stomach sinks as I watch her collect what remaining calmness she possesses to tell me something more polite than: “I just told you my choice, you insipid tosser.”

“Thank you.” She exhales slowly. “What I really need is the cash. I’m putting myself through grad school and I don’t have anything extra. My family isn’t... I mean, they can't.”

“Of course,” I breathe. “Anything.”

I feel like the most idiotic houseguest who ever overstayed with an unwilling host. I know I should be deeply sympathetic and ask about how she’s feeling or what she needs, but I can’t find the words.

I imagine the mortified little foetus, crouching awkwardly in the corner of her womb like six-year-old me at my Aunt Marta’s wake, hiding from the piss-drunk adults. Undoubtedly, any progeny of mine is inching toward the door, unable to bear the inappropriateness of its own imposition.

“Um. So you can Venmo me, or I have Paypal too.” A weak smile lifts the corner of her mouth. “You seem more like a Paypal guy.”

“I have both.” I chuckle nervously.

“Okay.” She softens. “I’ll text you after I make the appointment, I’ll know more about the cost then.”

_ Offer to drive her home. Say you’ll take her to the appointment and back. Be there for her. _

“Very well,” I say with a clipped tone that eviscerates me with shame.

Rose slides off the park bench and collects her handbag.

“So, I think I’m gonna go back to campus...” she trails off, pausing like she wants to say more, but decides against it. “Will you be at the protest later?”

Her question surprises me. She hasn't seen me for months, why would she care about what I'm doing later?

“Perhaps,” I lie. I’m definitely going straight home to sit in the shower for the rest of the morning, staring at the tile.

“I might sit this one out,” she ponders. “Although I’m totally steamed about Trump not leaving office. Can you believe that? What I really need is a stiff drink, if I weren’t… you know...”

I blink up at her like a bird stunned from flying into a window.

“But you can drink,” I say blandly. “Since you’re not… Er…”

She cocks her head.

“Oh yeah,” she snorts. “I guess you’re right. Thanks for that.”

“No,” I say out of sheer numbness. “Thank you.”

We stare at one another for a moment while I pray the ground will open up and swallow me whole.

“M’kay. Bye, Hux.” She starts down the path toward Sixth Street, which will take her back to the University of Idaho.

“Goodbye,” I call after her lamely. 

Then I sit there, alone on the park bench, watching my breath fog in front of my face in quick, desperate bursts. 

For eighty minutes I observe my boring, perfect life in my head, and I find it’s as thin and vapid as the puffs of condensation leaving my mouth. Of course I support a woman’s right to choose, but I’m just now realizing everything I’ve ever made is completely erasable.

My career path has been a straight, undeviating line since primary school, my routine blends every day into an identical blur: pick one and you’ve seen them all. Go to work, numbers all day, come home, jog five miles, feed the cat, dinner, Netflix, go to bed, and do it again with little deviation.

_ She didn’t want to see me again. _

Am I boring? Have I made my life so dull and frictionless that Rose Tico would give no thought to sharing it with me? Of course she didn’t come to the U of I to fuck its Accounts Payable Manger, but I thought we had something.

I think of her curled up in my sheets, her luminous skin a warm, honey-gold in the pale light of dawn. She was certainly something.  _ Damn. _

Morning frost fades from the grass; sunlight thaws my wind-burned cheeks and frozen nose. I unbutton my wool peacoat and gaze out at the edge of the park where the somber grays and browns of winter vegetation give way to even drabber browns and grays of the industrial buildings across the street.

I should call her and say something. Anything.

Standing with stiffness beyond my thirty four years, blood circulates grudgingly back through my legs again.

A grating squeak catches my attention.

On the playground, there’s a woman wearing a long, down jacket in pink camouflage print; she’s pushing an impossibly bundled child in the swings. Right in the center of her puffy coat, her middle swells out unmistakably like a fat caterpillar. The jacket strains flauntingly around her sumptuous fullness, mocking my failure.

“You got somewhere to be?” Caterpillar glares at me.

“Sorry.” I nod and continue down the path.

“You nasty Elites have no morals,” she spits.

Lanced with shock, I whirl around with the crunch of pavement under my feet. I’m aware some of the locals don’t particularly like the university and its ilk, but really now,  _ Elites? _ The standard for eliteness has got to be better than a gangly, red-headed wanker in a peacoat and leather oxfords.

“Excuse me?” I gasp.

My phone buzzes in my wool coat pocket with an alarming noise.

> _ EMERGENCY ALERT: ACTIVE SHOOTER NEAR YOUR LOCATION. _

“The devil?”

My pulse spikes with adrenaline.

Caterpillar squints down at her phone screen and snatches her marshmallow child out of the swing, hastening toward the parking lot.

“Wait!” I call after her, worried bullets will fly from any direction.

“Stay away from me!” she barks over her shoulder. “You’re getting what’s coming to you! All of you!”

_ All of… who? _

Dread creeps up my spine.

I open my search engine and type in “active shooter university…” My thumb slips and I accidentally hit ‘search’ before I finish the phrase. 

I stare at the results, unable to compute. This can’t be real.

> _ [LIVE UPDATE] Active Shooters on University of California Davis Campus, Death Toll Climbs _
> 
> _ Violent Mob Attack on University of Florida Escalates, Chanting Heard: “Liberate Gainesville” _
> 
> _ Mass Casualty Events Unfolding on University Campuses Across the Nation _
> 
> _ Exclusive: Video of ongoing active shooters at University of Minnesota Manketo _
> 
> _ Houston Under Siege: Regional Government Held Hostage; University Campuses, City Hall and Various Media Headquarters Under Attack _

Dozens, no, hundreds of articles like these appear with timestamps within the last few hours.

_ What the fuck is happening?  _

I type my search again: “active shooter university of idaho.”

> _ Twitter: @vandalsalerts: ACTIVE SHOOTERS ON UNIVERSITY OF IDAHO CAMPUS. ALL LOCATIONS INSECURE. RUN HIDE FIGHT.  _

Then a thought rattles my ghost so hard, it nearly comes free from my bones.

Rose is back at campus right now.

I run.


	2. Autogople

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I started this story on Tuesday, feeling nervous about certifying the election results but thinking that probably my fears were irrational. And then, things went crazier than I could have expected.
> 
> All that to say, I wrote this chapter *while* things were unfolding at the Capitol and it was a way for me to process my feelings. It's violent, it's intense and if that's not what you need right now, just go ahead and turn back now -no hard feelings.
> 
> But if you want to feel the feels with me, here you go.
> 
> Trigger warning: Mass shooting, gun violence, running to escape a shooter, far right takeover, shooter confrontation (I promise they escape.)

Panic overloads my system as I sprint down Sixth. My oxfords pound the pavement, my heart hammers with sharp staccato.

I haven’t worked in Moscow for long, but the pines hemming the University of Idaho normally shelter this academic haven from the nonsensical blather circulating through this deeply red state. Nestled in the tall trees among inquiring spirits, it’s been easy for me to forget the angry signs along pasture fences, and the aggressive slogans stuck on pickup mudflaps. (Speaking of pickups in Idaho, don’t ask me about Truck Nuts. My mind is besmirched forever.)

As I approach the campus’s main cluster of student life buildings, I find the university’s innocence in the midst of utter violation. Floods of people scatter in every direction, even at a hundred yards’ distance I’m passed by students fleeing.

“Wrong way!” a young coed bleats at me as I brush past her.

The sound of semiautomatic death echoes off the far side of the buildings up ahead. 

_ Rat tat tat. _

Screams.

Trampled signs and banners litter the lawn as I get closer. “Dump Trump” says one, several bent pieces of cardboard depict the Black Lives Matter logo. A large, torn banner tied to two trees catches my eye, “SURELY THIS MADNESS MUST CEASE —MLK”

My mind hasn’t the time to absorb these abandoned sentiments, I veer off from the bottleneck of crying escapees on Sixth Street and race toward the residence halls. 

“McConnell…” I mutter to myself, scanning the signs out front the dormitories’ brick, brutalist edifices. Normally, I never have a reason to be on this side of campus, but I know her residence hall name and room number.

That’s because I looked it up. 

Her profile might as well be a permanent tab on my browser, as if staring at her current parking pass number and meal plan option again and again might unlock some new clue about why she didn’t text me back. I had spent those moments hoping the memory of our night would grow on her. 

Instead, it was growing  _ in _ her. 

My stomach pitches.

The lawn out in front of Theophilus Tower normally teems with students reading, chatting or playing ultimate frisbee. Now it swarms with young people in desperate flight: they pour back into the dorms or tear toward the boundaries of campus. A green expanse away from me, the graduate student dorm stands on the other side of this commons.

“Oh my arsing god… fuck!”

Fear jams my heart into my throat at the sight of a dozen men with machine guns approaching from the south. I scramble toward the student store, ducking behind a pylon.

“The tyranny of lies is over!” shouts a gritty male voice from a megaphone. “Leave this Marxist swamp and go get real jobs!”

_ Tat tat tat! _

Their weapons spit rounds of hot lead. Wails and shrieks fill the air. Not a dozen yards away, I hear someone crying for their mother.

I pin my back to the pillar, pressing myself against its surface. Air punches in and out of my lungs and my vision swims. Fucking god in a box, I’m going to die here and not even my cat will care.

Just inside the glass doors to the student store, I see a young man in a blue ballcap waving at me, he motions for me to get down and crawl toward the door.

I shake my head.

“Now!” he mouths.

My silent ‘no’ is just enough to remind me of my goal. 

I shut my eyes.  _ If she’s hurt, I’ll never forgive myself. _

_ Tat tat tat tat tat tat tat! _

_ “Liberate Moscow!” _

I can’t well go around, my best recourse is to wait until those fucking nutters have reached the north side of the lawn and make a run for the graduate dorm.

The deafening blasts of gunfire recedes somewhat, I peer around the pylon and survey the several hundred yards between me and McConnell Hall. A group of students huddle in front of Theophilus Tower, corralled by the assailants. If I’m fast and don’t draw their fire, I can make it.

My brain screams at my legs,  _ “Go! Run now, you worthless shite! _ ” but my knees buckle.  _ This is suicide. _

I fill my lungs with a long, fortifying inhale.

Of course it’s suicide, but let’s think practically. She’s a gorgeous, earnest, engineering student with every promise of a brilliant career bettering humanity with her soaring idealism. I am a replaceable, mid-level accountant with a perfunctory existence, the world hardly needs another scowling curmudgeon. If I died protecting her, it would be a net gain, surely.

Rather than wait for my brain to come up with a counterargument, I dart out onto the lawn like a deer crossing a busy street.

The scene is bedlam. 

Like a battlefield strewn with defeat, my path is filled with the injured and dead. I move like a bad dream, my legs stuck in tar.

“Hey!” A gruff voice barks above the din. A burly shape in a hunting costume turns toward me, his posture like a stalking predator. He lifts his weapon.

_ Rat tat tat! _

Adrenaline takes over. Earth and grass fling up around me as bullets pepper the ground where I stood a moment ago. I fly across the field: pumping my arms madly, leaping over sorrowful lumps and stumbling toward the entrance of McConnell Hall. My body hits the door with a sickening thud.

“Fuck! Open up, why won’t you open?” I pound the glass. Shit, I forgot about the key card! 

“Where you going, professor?” A snarl drawls from several meters behind me.

_ Shit, shit shit shit.  _ With trembling hands, I fumble with my wallet and press it to the card reader.

_ Click. _ The machine blinks red. 

My guts knot with realization.  _ You don’t have access to the residence halls, idiot!!  _

I’m dead. Looking over my shoulder, an unhurried figure prowls steadily closer to me. What are you supposed to think about before you die? I can’t stop thinking about my library book that’s overdue. Who will take it back?

The menacing shape lifts his weapon.

A metal and glass surface bucks against my back and the collar of my coat jerks me off my feet.

“Get in, moron!”

_ RAT TAT TAT TAT TAT TAT! _

I’ve fallen against a tall Latinx man with curly dark hair and suave, smoothly-cut features. His bristly stubble scrapes my ear. Outside, bullets ping off the pavement and the metal structure of the entryway.

“Okay, let’s get you away from the window, genius,” he grunts, hauling me backward behind a tipped-over couch propped in front of the doorway.

I blink rapidly, my eyes adjusting to the dark. Several students crouch on the edges of the dorm’s foyer, watching the unfolding violence outside. A tall Black man hefts the leg of a table over his shoulder for a weapon.

“Tha… thank…” I struggle to speak.

“Save it, doc,” my rescuer smirks.

“Not a professor,” I cough, trying to catch my breath.

The man’s thick, dark eyebrows shoot up.

“I don’t care who you are, are you any good with a baseball bat?”

I shake my head.

“I’m looking for someone,” I reply.

“How many shooters did you see?” The man’s eyes widen. “Wexley came downstairs a few minutes ago and said there were five or six armed groups, like platoons!”

“I don’t know!” My voice wavers. “I was running for my life!” 

“Who are you looking for?” 

“Rose. Rose Tico.” The name feels so tender on my breathless lips.

“Oh yeah, I know her. Third floor.”

“Is she here?”

“Not sure.”

“I need to get her out,” I choke. “She can’t be here.”

“Listen.” The Black man squats down beside us. “There are four exits on this building. No word yet, but for people who want to run, we’re sending them to the northwest stairwell.”

“Northwest stairwell,” I repeat, as if I’m absorbing any kind of information at this point.

“Be careful out there,” he grunts.

I scramble toward the stairs. 

“Keep down!” they hiss after me. 

Outside, gunfire continues to pop sporadically. I climb the stairs two at a time, racing to the third floor.

_ 333, 334, 335… _

I stop at a door covered in Disney princess coloring pages. How often I’ve thought, during the intervening weeks, about coming here. Hesitantly, I rap on the only bare inch of wood.

A scraping sound scuffles inside.

“Rose?”

Footsteps. Then the handle twists slowly.

“Hello?” One little velvet brown eye peers out at me.

“It’s me,” I crowd around the doorframe impatiently. “I’ve come to get you out of here.”

The door widens, revealing her face: a bewildered frown marring her features. Her hair falls in loose waves and she’s wearing violet purple track pants and an oversized tee draped off one shoulder.

My heart seizes at the sight of her.  _ Really, she didn’t know about the…? _ Even I can see a shift in her gravity, a gentle softening to her curves that makes my stomach coil with primal possessiveness. I want to touch her, to wind my fingers in her hair and kiss her collarbone where her skin glows like a summer afternoon.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she snaps.

She eyes me like an animal caught in a trap.

I stumble to reply, speechless.

“Did you…” Her eyes narrow. “...Come for me?”

I swallow hard.

“I… I did,’ I say. 

“Why would you do that? I just told you that you ruined my life, and you said fucking nothing!”

For a moment, I’m sure she’s going to bite me.

“Christ, I… apologize…”

“What are you going to do now, ride off into the sunset with me?” she snarls. Her eyebrows stretch upward with accusation, her lips bunch with barely-leashed fury.

I didn’t expect this. She’s hurt. 

I hurt her.

“Rose, I care for you,” I say softly.

“You fucked me one time and then barely said a word when I told you that I’m pregnant!”

Her eyes gloss with moisture, spilling down her cheeks.

My eyelids float closed, I grip the doorframe and pull myself out of my numbing shame.

“I fucked that up, Rose,” I groan. “What I meant to say… What I wanted to say was… I…”

“What?” she cries.

I’m about to say that I want her. 

I’ve wanted her ever since she burst into the finance office and announced to the financial aid director in front of the entire staff that housing was too expensive for some students from poorer backgrounds. Her impassioned speech took my breath away, and then shocked me again when I looked up her student profile and found she had earned a full ride, housing included. Rose Tico, she’s always saving what she loves. I think I might love her.

But the night of my dreams ended with a morning like a splash of cold water.

And now here we are. 

I’m shaking, my slacks are rumpled and my hair falls down over my eyes. She’s madder than hell, tears track down her face and her shirt bunches just so over the slightest little contour. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Outside, chaos unravels the existence we knew before this moment.

She’s right here, so why does the distance feel so far?

“I want you to know that I’m here for you,” I reply. “For anything you need or want.”

Her shoulders slump.

“Yeah, I know you said you’d help me out with the money or whatever...” she says, sounding deflated.

My brows meet and something sinks inside of me. Did I say something wrong?

“Sorry, I know I’m a bit touchy with these hormones,” she says, wiping her nose. She dabs her eyes, unselfconsciously using the hem of her shirt. 

My breath rushes out of my lungs when I see it: a round little swell of her honey golden skin. It’s the quickest glimpse, really, but it pierces me. The image floods my bloodstream like flaming gasoline.  _ This is not a drill, Hux, that is a human child. You did that to her. _

“What can I do for you?” I ask in a moment of boldness.

The long, dark curve of her eyebrows lift scrutinizingly. She makes an exasperated sound.

“You keep asking me that, and it’s confusing!” Rose barks “I don’t know, what do you wanna do?”

I’m starting to get frustrated with her unexplained behavior.

“I’m trying to do right by you, Rose,” I say sternly. “If you’re asking what I want, well, then I want to get you out of here as soon as possible!”

“What?” she snorts. “Running out into a mass casualty situation is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!”

“If a shooter comes this way, we’ll be trapped!”

“But I’ll just barricade the door!”

“No, Rose,” I steam at her, “These are the shittiest cheapest doors student housing could find, I know because I signed their purchase orders!”

That shuts her up. Her lips bunch and twist like she might laugh at me.

“How did I get knocked up by such an asshole?” She smirks.

I flush at the mention, or maybe at the familiarity of her jest, my cheeks burn and I remember that I lost my scarf. My neck must look so blotchy.

A crash in the alarmingly near distance puts us on high alert.

“Was that glass?” Rose says.

I snatch her wrist.

“I’m getting you out of here!”

“Wait!” She lunges back into her dorm room and starts stuffing things in her backpack. Fuzzy sweater arms and stray papers burp out of the enormous bag’s open mouth

“Rose!” I snap. “They’ll be here any minute, we have to go!”

“Where’s my textbook?” She wrings her hands.

Panic floods me, I cast fearful glances down the hallway.

“Come with me right now, damn it!”

“I need this book for a project…”

“Confound you, Rose,” I explode. “Come this instant!”

“Okay, fine!” she glowers, slipping into her coat and throwing the bag over her shoulders.

“This way!” I say, as if I remember where the northwest stairwell is located. Which I don’t exactly.

A few doors along the dormitory hallway peep open as we pass; fearful eyes peer out at us. 

“Come on.” Rose tugs my hand. “I think the exit you’re looking for is this way.” She leads around an L corner and up ahead, the northwestern stairwell and its glorious green EXIT sign cheer our success.

I squeeze Rose’s hand and signal her with a finger over my lips. Quiet as mice, we creep down the metal steps in the echoey, bare stairwell. I think we’re avoiding detection swimmingly.

That is, until we round the second floor and meet a middle aged man with an enormous, semi automatic weapon. The man wears a grey Dicks Sporting Goods hoodie and has an American flag buff pulled up over his nose, but his eyes register almost as much surprise as I feel knifing through my stomach.

“Okay…” Rose says slowly, elongating the vowel as if that will buy us some time.

“Uh…” the man fumbles, swinging the gun’s deadly mouth at her. “Get the fuck out of here and get jobs.”

Ice sweeps over me. I should stop him. Knock him down the stairs.  _ Something. _

“Yeah, so, we were totally just gonna do that,” Rose says, her bottom lip trembling. “You know… Jobs.”

_ Move, bastard!  _ I scream at myself internally.

The man’s fleshy cheeks crinkle in what must be a frown behind his mask.

“You’re making fun of me,” he mumbles.

“What?” Rose leans forward.

“I said, you’re making fun of me, you… bitch!” He prods her with the weapon.

That snaps me back into action.

“Alright, that’s quite enough,” I say with my administrative voice. I push in front of Rose and catch the nose of the machine gun gingerly with my fingers, swinging it away from us.

“The fuck? No, you listen to me now!” He steps back and points that black, vacuous hole of destruction at me. I lift my hands, stepping back slowly.

“Stop right there!” 

“What is it you want?” I bark back. “Do you want money?” I dig into my pocket. “Here… Here’s eighty four dollars to let us go, do you want that?”

“No!” the man snorts. “I’m tired of you Elites telling us what to do... buying us off and shit!”

“Buying you off?” Rose scoffs from behind me. “Who are you even referring to?”

“Shut up, bitch!” he bawls.

“That will be all, thank you,” I say between my teeth, my hand reaching back and gripping her thigh.

“Stop talking!” the man orders.

“Absolutely, sir,” I say in my most placating tone. “But if I may…”

“Shut the fuck up, I’m here to take down you fuckin Ivory Tower types, not listen to your shit!”

“If we could just be reasonable…”

“FUCKING SHUT UP!”

He points the gun at the air.

_ KAKAKAKAKAKAKAKAK! _

The volley of bullets thunders throughout the chamber, sprinkling shells across the linoleum floor. When my body finds itself again, Rose cowers against my back, breathing heavily. My own inhales come sharp and ragged. We’re teetering on the edge of a knife.

“I know you won’t listen to me,” I say hoarsely, “But you’ve got to let her go.”

I bite my tongue.

“She’s pregnant.”

“You’re lying,” the man sneers, stiffening.

“I’m absolutely not,” I whisper. “So… Kill me if you want, but please, let her down the stairs.”

Paper rustles behind me. Cautiously, Rose hands me something folded.

The gunman watches silently as I pick it up and look.

My heart stops. Then, it expands steadily, practically snapping my ribs, maybe splitting my chest in half.

The grey fuzzy picture is mostly indistinguishable, except for a face. 

I would know that profile anywhere, because it’s mine. 

It's a familiar nose of an unfortunate size, a distinctive chin.  _ You’re mine. _

When I glance back up at the gunman, my vision prisms. Feelings prick in the corner of my eyes.

“Well, er…” 

I tip the sonogram toward him, blinking quickly. When my eyes clear, I find him shaking his head.

“Both of you get the hell out of here,” he grumbles.

I don’t need a second invitation. I grab Rose’s hand and dash down the steps, not caring how loudly our shoes clatter on the metal stairs. 

The hallway on the ground floor is hauntingly empty.

“Just a moment,” I catch Rose by the shoulder before she throws herself against the door.

We look through the glass, waiting. Listening.

The back lot is empty, though I think I see someone hiding in their car. Pines and firs bend in the late morning breeze, I envy their imperviousness and flexibility.

“All clear,” Rose whispers.

“Alright, let’s go.”

We lean against the push latch together and spill out into the chilled shock of January air.

The clean, sharpness of a crystalline, cold breath heightens my senses.  _ Just a quarter mile and she’s safe.  _ My heart squeezes.  _ They’re safe. _

Rose and I bolt across the parking lot, running low to the ground and taking cover amid the fleet of student cars.

“Do you smell smoke?” Rose says.

“Hmm.” An acrid, foul smell hits my nose. “Yes, I do.”

I stand warily, chancing a look over a 90s Honda Civic. 

Theophilus Tower belches with a black bruming cloud; flames lick out of windows on several floors, adding to a growing shadow of black dust hanging over the campus like a nightmare.

“God, this is really happening,” Rose breathes, staring up at the sky in horrified wonderment.

Ash begins to fall around us like snow.

“Let’s get you safe, Rose.” I squeeze her hand.

In my breast pocket, folded up neatly, another question burns hot and acrid.

What happens if I want a baby with Rose, but she doesn’t want one with me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *deep exhale*
> 
> Tell me all of it. How are you doing?


	3. Siege

“Careful,” I chide, holding both of Rose’s hands as she takes a precarious step over the drainage ditch.

We tromp through tall, weedy grass on our roundabout way off of the U of I campus, leaving the smoke and sounds of gunfire behind.

But it’s out of the frying pan and into the fire.

A cacophony of dreadful honking clamors from Highway 8, Moscow’s main thoroughfare. Dozens of horns vocalize in various pitches: desperate staccatos, low, disgruntled blasts, indignant, long blares. We emerge onto the grassy shoulder of the road between the university’s two northern exits and find the highway gummed up with bumper to bumper traffic. 

They never talk about the road rage during the apocalypse. 

Some poor sod in front of us lays on his horn, yelling out the window of his pickup.

“What the fuck is going on?” 

_ Wouldn’t we all like to know? _

“Stay close to me,” I murmur to Rose, mostly for my own sake. 

The sleeve of her puffy coat brushes against mine with the soft hush of polyester on wool. I could hardly absorb the feeling of holding her hand while we fled campus, but now, on neutral ground, I feel a bit shy about reaching for it again.

From what I can see, the highway looks impassable. Vehicles jam together as far as the eye can see, four cars deep on two lanes, scant inches between each bumper. Swiveling red and blue lights blink in the distance.

“Look.” Rose points up ahead. “It’s a police blockade.”

“Christ,” I snarl, or perhaps half-sob with the thought that the desecration might be nearly over. “Took them bloody long enough!”

Rose climbs the grassy bank onto the shoulder of the road.

“Do you see any other way we can get across the highway?”

“Aside from physically climbing on top of cars, no,” I reply.

We decide to venture toward the blockade, our rattled spirits undoubtedly drawn by the comforting notion of authority. Nearing the rows of white sawhorses pushing back the cars, we see an open path built for the fleeing foot traffic off campus.

But the police officers look strange.

They’re decked out in old, banged-up riot gear, Desert Storm leftovers by the looks of them. Helmets and goggles, body armor and shields communicate an air of wild-eyed wariness that deeply unsettles me. Are their rows of plexiglass shields for protecting the people running away from the shooters, or to protect the cops from these people?

One officer steps forward, blocking us from merging into the crowd crossing the highway.

“You there,” he barks, bristling like a rottweiler. “Stop!”

“We’re just trying to cross!” Rose retorts.

“Where are you coming from?” he snaps. “Are you Antifa?”

“Antifa… what the fuck?” She recoils.

“Sir,” I say soothingly, trying to appeal to his machismo. “We’ve come from a roundabout way to avoid the shooters.”

Between his inscrutable tactical goggles and tight frown, the officer gives us a stony expression.

“What reason do you have to be on campus?”

“I’m a student and he works there!” Rose is beginning to lose patience.

“Watch your tone, ma’am.” The policeman points his baton at her. “We know that the violence was instigated by an Antifa riot.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Rose blasts. “I watched from my third floor dorm room a peaceful protest get mowed down by crazy MAGA terrorists!”

The officer does not take kindly to this, his menacing mass looms over Rose and my stomach drops down into my oxfords.

“Please, officer,” I gasp, snatching Rose’s arm. “We are not involved in this, whatsoever. Let us through.”

For a moment I can’t tell if he’s moved by my plea, the glossy pane of his goggles glares at us silently. Finally, he steps aside.

“Go on,” he grunts.

We scurry past him and fade into the mass of students and faculty flocking across Highway 8. On the other side of the street, in the liquor store parking lot, the police have set up a temporary headquarters. People stand about haplessly, or wander through the crowd, calling names. Some crumble, broken by what we’ve just witnessed. Others look stunned.

Several militarized police stand with notepads among crying people, hearing tearful accounts. The officers’ posture is surprisingly hostile, as if the victims had some part in the perpetration. Two policemen flank a young Black woman in a BLM shirt; her face glistens with sweat and fear, she’s talking fast and inching backward.

“Come.” I tug on the sleeve of Rose’s jacket. “My house is far enough from this insanity.”

“Why are the police acting like all these people are criminals?” Rose asks woodenly. “There are terrorists on a university campus! People are dying!”

A few meters away, a burly officer with a riot shield eyes us warily.

“Let’s go, Rose,” I drop my voice to a warning pitch. 

We ease toward the edge of the busy nerve center and dip into an alleyway. There among the strewn soda cups and plastic bags we make a quick escape. 

‘A’ street leads us through a quiet neighborhood, though we can still hear the popping of gunfire from the U of I. 

While bushy oak trees shelter us as we hasten along the sidewalk, the houses on our right stare with watchful window-pane eyes. Every Trump 2020 flag and MAGA sign sends dread rippling through my stomach. Who lurks inside those little cottages, staring at us with a disgust that I would have never anticipated before today?

A grizzled, elderly man trims a box hedge in front of his house where an enormous red “Make America Great Again” flag drapes from the eaves. He glances up at us, his gaze shooting alarm through my body.

“Go.” I push Rose’s back, speeding her up as we brisk past the house. “Quickly.”

As we cross a street slogged by traffic, I ponder that the man trimming his hedge was entirely disinterested in us. Still, my trust for those who align with the president has drained to nihl.

East A Street brings us into the historic district and my neighborhood. Black oaks, thick with age, line the sidewalk; their twisted limbs reach over us. I stare down at the gnarled roots pushing through the pavement and reflect how the evil of this day has been growing for centuries. The structures of our society can pave over its hideous strength, but unless uprooted, it inevitably punctures through our niceties.

“You remember my house...” I say, stopping in front of a Victorian gingerbread with navy shingles and subtly stylish oak soffits. My politely understated contribution to the neighborhood’s curb appeal extends to a neatly maintained law and cottage roses, now dormant in winter. 

I’ve lived in Moscow long enough to know that the historic district enjoys simple beauty, but reviles exhibitions of urbane taste. A faculty member of the art department lived down the street from me for several years until she became too frustrated with her neighbor who parked his jacked-up F150 in front of her yard in passive rebellion against her nude Aphrodite birdbath.

I’ve never had trouble with the neighbors, even the ones with aggressive bumper stickers on their sporting vehicles, but now I cast furtive glances about my street. I won’t bring Rose into a death trap.

The moment we step inside my house, Rose throws down her backpack, flings herself upon my grey twill couch and curls up, shivering. I shrug out of my coat, watching her silently.

“Are you cold?” I ask, bolting the door and drawing all of my window shades closed. “Can I make you something hot to drink?”

She shakes her head, no. Her body trembles and her teeth chatter so violently, my gut bobs with alarm.

I sink down beside her, giving her several inches of distance.

“Is everything alright? Is something wrong with…” Fear lances through me. “With…?”

“I’m fine,” she wavers. “It’s like, a normal thing.”

An urge washes over me to scoop her up off the couch and hold her close.

“Neurogenic tremors,” Rose says, shutting her eyes. “Google it.”

I open my phone and punch that phrase in.

“Why zebras don’t get ulcers…” I sniff. 

She’s right, neurogenic tremors are the body’s healthy way of dissipating stress after a fight/flight encounter. Apparently most of us lose the ability because we’ve learned to suppress our feelings. I’m so far down that path, I think I suppress the feeling of suppressing my feelings.

A notification appears from my news app and I tap it out of habit.

“Fuck.”

“What?” Rose murmurs.

“Congress has been evacuated from Capitol Hill, an armed takeover occupies some of the government buildings in DC.”

“Shit.”

I scan the headlines and tap on pictures of flag-wielding terrorists; they storm the hallowed steps of the Capitol and flood the Pentagon. All of the main federal buildings where the work of governing is done seems to be overrun. There’s even an army of insurrectionists occupying Camp David.

“This is a bloody nightmare,” I gasp. “Surely, the National Guard must put a stop to this soon!”

“D-do you remember Oregon a couple years ago?” Rose stammars.

“Oregon?”

“Yeah, there was a 40 day standoff at Malheur Wildlife Preserve.”

“Jesus, you’re right. Those armed fanatics, the Bundys, holed up there with their wretched guns,” I say with disgust. “I suppose none of this should be surprising.”

A quiet sniff draws my attention away from my phone. Tears track down the side of Rose’s face, pooling on the couch cushion. She stares blankly across my shadowed living room, clutching her knees to her chest.

My throat tightens.

Hesitantly, I reach toward her, my stomach fluttering. I slide my hand over her shoulder, my pale, spider-like fingers hardly suited for transmitting reassuring sentiments through the puffiness of her jacket. She releases a long, slow breath.

I lose track of how long we stay just like that: her, slowly gaining control of her hiccuping breaths; me, savoring that small point of contact with her.

Rose rolls onto her back and blinks damply at me.

“I need to find out if my roommate made it,” she says, taking her phone out of her jacket pocket.

“Of course.”

I watch her thumbs fly; the little bubble noises of her typing fills the silence between us. Her soft lips part slightly, those brown eyes flicker with worry. Dusky lashes whisk against her cheeks in wet, doleful bats, flushing big droplets down to cling to the edge of her chin.

It takes all my discipline to tear my gaze away from her and get up, giving her some privacy.

I keep the kitchen dark, drawing the blinds. The kettle begins a shy whistle and I snatch it from the blue flames before it can cry in earnest. On my phone, NBC intones shocked, indignant commentary; I glance up at the footage from DC as I pour a cup of… oh shit, I can’t give her lapsang souchong, it has caffeine. I pour one mug down the drain.

_ But she doesn’t want it. _

I stare at my steaming cup. If I have lapsang souchong and give her mint, will she take that as me pressuring her to keep it? Perhaps I should give her lapsang souchong after all. Christ, I’m spinning out again.

The other mug dribbles into the sink and I re-pour us both mint with a touch of honey. Jesus, why was that so hard?

Curious, I snatch up my phone and ask the internet, “things pregnant people can’t eat or drink.”

“Really…” I murmur. “Soft cheese?”

I nearly drop my phone when Rose appears in the doorway, startling me with a,

“Hey.”

She’s dried her eyes and taken her coat off, wearing instead a pink vintage cardigan from her backpack. It’s the sort of knit thing with an impossibly lofty angora fuzz and pearl buttons you’d only find in a charity store, but she wears it with whimsical ease and charm.

“Any word from your roommate?” I manage, quickly x-ing out of my untoward search.

“Yeah, she’s with her girlfriend at a house off campus. A bunch of our friends are there…”

Rose lets the sentence trail and I get the distinct sense she’d rather be with them.

“I can take you, if you like,” I suggest, stabbing myself in the heart.

“Nah, it’s on the other side of town.” She shrugs. “Things are crazy right now.”

I didn’t realize my whole body had tightened up until she releases me from this suggestion. I betray myself with an enormous exhale and she eyes me quizzically. 

“Tea?” I offer.

“Sure. I’d like to watch the news, if that’s alright.”

I flit about Rose like a mother hen, settling her on the couch with my best cashmere throw blanket, bringing us both a curry soup reheated on the oven. We eat in silence, our spoons clinking lighty over the low volume of the TV. 

On the news, ugliness reigns unchecked. NBC reports that the CNN news headquarters are now occupied, more state capitols fall into dark disarray.

The day stretches on this way: bad news, warm comfort food, silent companionship. Daylight fades and we’ve just polished off an entire box of Trader Joe’s peanut butter cups. Rose lifts the remote and hits the mute button.

“Can we watch something else?”

Amusement bubbles in my chest.

“What did you have in mind?”

“The Office?” she suggests, wincing.

“Which season?” I smirk, getting up to grab the Apple TV remote.

“Oh my god, I didn’t think you’d agree to watch that,” she says.

“What, you think I’d only allow the British one?” I say dryly.

“I don’t know,” she flusters. “You seem so…”

Blood rushes to my cheeks.

“...Serious, I guess?”

“You can only imagine me reading computer manuals for fun?” 

“No!” she objects. “But maybe like… watching those dull PBS documentaries about how computers are made.”

The paused screen is just bright enough to faintly illuminate her face, but I already heard the smile in her voice.

“I do like documentaries,” I say briskly. “  _ And _ I prefer season four of the Office. The American one.”

“Put it on.” She waves at the TV.

Halfway into the episode, the heaviness dragging on my spirit lifts somewhat. Well, perhaps it just suspends for a moment. 

Dunder Mifflin hosts a convolutedly-themed fun run raising awareness for rabies: Michael stumbles over his failures, Andy suffers from nipple chafing, Jim and Pam purchase a lamp at a yard sale and dance around their feelings for one another. The problems are so finite, the whirlwind of layered, humorous dynamics offers escape. By the end, Rose and I find ourselves laughing free and easy together. 

When the credits roll we watch another, and another until I look to my left and see Rose asleep, propped up by a large throw pillow. I shut off Netflix, but instead of powering down my TV, I let the glow of the homescreen cast a pale light over Rose’s face for a moment.

Her features relax. Raven hair cascades down the cushion from her head like a river of glossy, wet ink. Under the delicate cover of her lids, her eyes track rapidly, following vivid dreams. She hums softly, her lips curling ever so slightly. My heart soars with affection, watching sleep grant her a moment of relief. She deserves it, darling girl.

I perch on the edge of the couch and battle with myself whether to get her another blanket for the couch, or move her to my bedroom. With windows facing the street, I’d rather not leave her in the living room. My cock twitches its own opinion on the matter and I set my jaw in stern self-admonishment. This is no time for that.

With agonizing slowness, I scoop Rose off the couch and cradle her in my arms. She makes a little squeaking sound, but doesn’t wake up. 

So trusting. 

She has every reason to be guarded, to put up walls so the world won’t fail her again, and yet she rests so innocently in my care.  _ She trusts me.  _ Her confidence is a gift and a charge: to do better, to be more present and honest. To make certain she’s safe.

Bringing her into the bedroom, I lay her down on the bed with a gentle creak from its wooden frame. With tenderness clutched in my chest like a held breath, I pull my black linen bedding up over her little form. I hover over her, pausing to move a wisp of hair from her face.

I don’t want to leave her. And yet it’s not my place to ask anything more of her, not now.

Sighing silently, I pull a knit blanket off the foot of my bed and head for the living room.

“Hux?”

Like touching a hot wire, my veins fizzle with surprise.

When I turn around, Rose lifts her head from the pillow.

“Would you stay?”

My chest triple-thuds. I can’t allow myself to run wild with this invitation, but I want to.  _ She feels safer this way, that’s all. _

I stand over the opposite side of my bed and unbutton my collared shirt, draping it over the chair nearby. My belt comes off next, then my wool socks, but I leave my slacks and white tee on, just so she knows I’m not trying to push anything.  _ That’s all I want: that she would feel safe. _

Holding back a surge of more carnal desires, I slide quietly into bed beside her and settle in with a cautious, feather-light exhale. My brain begins its usual whirring, the standard trigger for my insomnia, and now the backlog of dreadful images start to flash through my head.

Something burrows through the rumpled covers toward me, finding my hand and lacing soft warm fingers with mine. Bashful hope expands in my chest, lifting my battered soul out of darkness with buoyant promise. The sweet grip of her is too delicious not to savor, though I strain desperately to rein in my feelings.

_ This is all I want, _ I tell myself,  _ that she would be safe. _

_ This is all I want. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a week, what a week, what a week.   
> Tell me what you're thinkin' and how you're doin'.


	4. Escape

That night I sleep all of 45 minutes.

I listen to Rose’s small sounds: her little twists and murmurs; her breath, soft like a breeze through willow leaves. That’s when I feel most restful.

Most of the night, however, I spend rifling madly through the file cabinets of my skull. 

How long will this occupation last? How many days can we get by on my bulk food stash in the pantry? Does Rose like oatmeal? If the local government sympathizes with a Trump autogolpe, will anything return to normal? Where is the National Guard? Crumbs, I’m nearly out of toothpaste. 

Questions about Rose blister the harshest in my frazzled brain. 

Is she safe while those racist fucks run the town? What happens if she needs medical attention? Does she still want to… go through with ending the pregnancy? If so, where does that leave us? If not ...? 

_Does she feel for me what I feel for her?_

All these questions roll around in my head like pebbles in a rock tumbler, their incessant clatter keeping sleep at bay.

Night fades slowly from the open, wide hills of the Palouse. Day unfailingly announces its approach in languid greys and pinks hours before my alarm ever tells me it’s time for work.

When I get up just before dawn, my brain fizzles like a hairdryer in a bathtub, but I’ve got some semblance of a survival plan. 

Keyed-up and jittery, I start buzzing about the kitchen. I reorganize the fridge in order of things that will spoil first if the power cuts out. My counters fill with Ball canning jars from the closet: I can pickle all the vegetables in my crisper drawer right now and make certain there’s enough to last. A pot roast goes in the oven, then I place two packages of good sausages into my large cast iron. Delicious, sizzling aromas plume from the pan in thick, velvety smoke: fennel, sage and sweet, crisped fat. 

I’m rummaging through the freezer when Rose appears in the kitchen doorway with a small moan. She blinks blearily and pushes back her frizzed tangle of bed hair.

“Ugh… what is that smell?” Her head swivels perplexedly around the cluttered countertops where I’ve brought down all my large containers of dry goods for inventory. “Are you planning on feeding an army?” she exclaims.

“I’m concerned the municipal services can’t be trusted,” I explain. “We’ve got to conserve our resources for the long term, I’m afraid.”

“Why would we stay here?” Her brows meet in a thoughtful frown.

“Why wou…? Rose, it isn’t safe out there!”

“Exactly, shouldn’t we try to get somewhere people are less likely to whip out an AK-47?”

Anxiety quakes the edges of my insomnia-warped vision. I run a hand through my sweaty locks.

“Well, assuming this whole mess doesn’t get sorted, we’ll have to go, of course…”

“I’ve been texting my roommate, Rey,” she ventures slowly, like I’m a frightened animal. “She says a lot of our friends are leaving for Portland or Seattle.”

“And…?” Fear simmers in my stomach. _She’s going to leave me_.

“I think we should go too.”

The pan snaps angrily. Sausages hiss, issuing with rich juice and searing heat. 

Tight lipped, I hasten to the stove and turn the darkened, crispy sides upward. In the grip of my tongs, the lavish sausage pops enticingly from its skin: dribbling a fragrant promise of security and provision. _Why can’t she see I’m trying to meet her needs here?_

“You don’t like that idea,” Rose observes.

“I think it’s far safer to remain sheltered in place than to risk the open road.”

“Rey’s girlfriend Kaydel has family in Portland, she said they would house us.”

I grunt, staring down into the pan. Frustration sears me like a splash of hot grease.

“Why are you glowering?” her pitch increases. “Say something!” 

“Why can’t I house you?” I snap.

“I mean, I’m thankful, but obviously—”

“Why don’t you trust me, Rose?” I start to come unraveled. “Why do I get the distinct impression that you don’t want _my_ help?”

Shock draws her features into a feisty little pinch.

“Okay, wow, that’s assuming a lot.”

“Is there something wrong with me helping you?” Irritation laces with my voice.

“Well, now that you mention it, I found it really frustrating yesterday that you jumped in every time, like I had zero agency.”

My mouth drops open like a trap door. 

“So I was supposed to allow you to be killed or detained?”

“You could have backed me up when that officer was trash talking me instead of just taking over!”

“Jesus God, Rose!” I yell. “We don’t have time to teach the police a lesson on feminism, the sexists are in charge now!”

“You’re telling me…” she grumbles, rolling her eyes.

“So that’s it, then.” I drop my arms limply to my sides. “You’re going with your friends to Portland and leaving your chauvinist acquaintance, Hux, in Idaho?”

More smoke seethes from the pan, shrouding the kitchen in a savory, dense haze.

Rose claps her hand over her nose and mouth, lurching forward suddenly. 

Horrified shame grips me. _Oh god, have I insulted her again?_

“Rose?”

She stumbles into the hallway, and I follow, silently praying every penitent invocation I can remember from Catholic school. I find her in the bathroom on her knees, draped over the porcelain bowl and hacking wretchedly therein. 

Her wet coughs ricochet off the tile walls, the cacophony masking the sound of involuntary murmurs that come spilling out of me: “Ah, darling girl,” and “Poor dear one.”

I kneel beside her and gather up her long curtain of hair, its ends running droplets of cold water onto my sleeve, which I ignore. Smoothing my hand up and down her back, I can’t bear the tenderness of this cliche, which even I understand to be a rite of passage for new parents. I shouldn’t let myself dwell on it. _Pretend she’s just a drinking mate that’s gotten a bit sloshed._

Rose rests her cheek on the porcelain seat, dry heaving. Saliva and trails like egg white from her swollen, livid lips, effortful tears wring from her eyes. Shallow pants echo in the watery cavern of the bowl, as she struggles to catch her breath.

“That’s it,” I whisper, “Breathe, angel.” _So much for pretending._

“Unnng, god,” she moans. “Toilet… so much cleaner than—” she coughs, “...the dorms.”

My chest wrings with the image of her alone in a filthy stall. She sits back on her heels and I yank a hand towel down from its rack.

“Does this happen often?” I ask quietly. 

“It was rare enough for me to think I had some kind of food poisoning or something.” She shrugs, wiping her face with the towel. “It’s just certain smells that trigger it.” 

“Like what?”

“Mainly this guy who sat next to me in design theory.” She wrinkles her button nose with the memory. “He got a putrid meatball sandwich every Wednesday and he was usually just finishing up when class started. No matter where I sat, I could always smell it.”

Rose jerks toward the toilet again with another wave of sickness. And now I’ve made her unwell enough times to start gaining on Meatball Sandwich. Well done, Armitage.

Not long later, she’s feeling less poorly and gets in the shower while I set about hiding those blasted sausages and waving a baking sheet in the kitchen to draft out the nasty air.

Portland. 

Well, no doubt she will be safer in a larger city.

The thought of letting her go makes me feel ill, but I shouldn't stop her. A lurking idea needles my mind that Idaho won’t offer her the option to go through with her choice in the midst of the current chaos. But Portland might. 

It’s unfair for me to hold her back.

My resolve wavers when I pass by the bathroom and hear sincere but utterly tuneless singing resonating through the door.

_“_ [ _Everything_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D5W4wWSj0AU) _, everything’s gonna be alright, gonna be alright,_

_“Everything, everything’s gonna be alright,”_

Emotion constricts in my throat. 

I don’t understand Rose Tico. 

Who truly clings to the light when all around darkness closes in? What gives her the audacity to pronounce a sweet little ‘fuck you’ to evil and allow herself joy? Rest? Hopefulness? If I let her go, will I ever find such a woman again? 

I swallow my feelings and prepare her requested breakfast: dry toast and water.

I’m sitting at the dining room table with a bowl of oatmeal when Rose appears. She slides all damp-haired and dewy into the chair before her plate. Her golden skin glows, radiant as a little sun I want to orbit forever.

“Serving you this sorry meal makes me feel as though you’re my prisoner,” I say, allowing my lips to lift up slightly. “There’s more oatmeal if you’d like some.”

“Nah, this is all I can stomach after ralphing,” she says breezily, biting a large crescent moon shape in her toast.

“Ralphing, what an odd expression.” I chuckle. Damn if she doesn’t make me feel less gloomy too.

With a soft-kick from my heart, I recognize the sheer white v-neck tee she’s wearing over her purple joggers. My undershirt hugs her curves and subtly reveals the full cups of a cheery, vermillion-orange bra at which I can’t stop sneaking looks. The soft slopes of her breasts meet just above the shirt’s neckline offering an appetizing view.

 _My god, they’re larger than... when I saw them before._ Lust courses down to my lap.

Rose glances my way from under long, flickering lashes. Her brown eyes glitter with coy mischief; I can’t decipher the little twist of her lips.

Her phone chirps, breaking the tension.

“Oh, Rey found somebody who can take us to Portland!” she exclaims.

My spirit sinks.

We’ve come to it at last.

 _Say you’ll let her go,_ my brain commands. _It would be selfish not to._

But my heart, in steady slams against my ribcage, has a different opinion. _Don't-let her-go_ , it beats, _thud-thud thud-thud_ , _don’t-let her-go_.

Heat swamps my face, my neck burns with stupid tattle-tale blotches but I don’t care.

“I’m coming with you,” I blurt. 

Rose looks up slowly from her phone, her brows drawing together.

“Umm, no duh,” she snorts. “I’m not leaving you here to get shot up for being some weirdo European.”

I slump back in my chair, a thousand pounds lifted from my shoulders. A laugh or a yell bubbles up from my stomach, but I let out a long exhale instead. 

_She’s not letting me go._

Rose’s phone tweets again.

“Oh shit, this guy wants to leave in like, an hour, can we be ready by then?”

“An hour?” Panic spreads through me. “Jesus… I suppose, yes.”

“Good. Rey says we can bring one bag each. How long does it take to get to Rosauers from here?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes on foot, assuming things are clear," I say.

Rose frowns at her phone screen.

“Well, we’d better pack light ‘cuz it sounds like things are very _not_ clear.”

“Fuck,” I mutter, getting up hastily and rinsing my bowl. _Don’t clean your dishes, wanker, gather your shit!_

In my bedroom, I toss a black backpack onto my bed and fold a few clean shirts and boxers into the bottom.

“Rose, do you need any clothes?” I call over my shoulder.

She floats into my room slowly, like she’s quite content not to rush about. She peers into my closet and runs her hand across my hanging garments.

“I packed the energy bars, bread and peanut butter from your pantry,” she says, tugging a black cashmere sweater off a hanger. While I collect wool socks and tactical base layers, Rose finds my silk stockings and a pair of luxury sweatpants.

“Is everything you own black?” she asks, a smile coloring her voice.

“It is not,” I sniff. “I also have grey.” 

In the hall closet, I find my good pocket knife, a camp stove and a pile of MREs I purchased for backpacking last summer. 

As Rose and I zip up our jackets at the door, I notice her backpack bulging enormously.

“That looks incredibly heavy,” I observe. “Perhaps we should switch.”

“Sure!” she puffs, setting the backpack down.

“Rose, what did you put in here?” I gasp, lifting the bag that must weigh over fifty pounds.

“Just the essentials!” she protests.

“There’s a bottle of wine and one of my scented candles,” I scoff, peering inside.

“I know I’m not supposed to drink, but like… I think I’m gonna need a little wine after this,” she pleads, her coaxing, big-lashed gaze melting my pragmatism. _This woman will ruin me._

I give her a testy scowl, but sling the backpack straps over my shoulders without a complaint.

With one last wistful glance around my home’s familiar, neat interior, I lock the door and we creep warily down 'A' street. 

The black oaks stretch over us with comforting predictability, but the rest of the Fort Russell Historic District has changed overnight. More homes fly Trump flags from poles or off balconies and eves. A few houses approximate the MAGA insignia with a simple red tablecloth or tarp. All have the same effect: solidarity with the unfolding events in Washington DC, or perhaps simply a desperate attempt to go unnoticed. 

Rose pauses.

“Do you want to go back and find a red piece of fabric to hang outside your window?” she asks gravely.

I shake my head.

“I’d rather have all my possessions looted and my home burned down than show tacit approval toward this senseless violence.”

No one is outside on A street, but as we travel north on Polk Street, we hear boisterous country music blaring several blocks west.

“Christ,” I mutter.

When finally D Street opens up on our left, we can see a block party in red, white and ...well more red and white. The neighborhood buzzes with people in thick jackets, red hats and not a mask in sight. Nine in the morning seems early for alcohol, but the cans and brown bottles glint smugly in clutched fists. 

The merry, gloating atmosphere sickens me. Don’t they know people died a scant mile away?

A heavy man and excessively groomed woman, both in their fifties, wave happily at us from across the street. The blonde, false-lashed woman cups her mittens around her cherry red lips.

“Happy Liberation Day!” she chortles.

“Same!” I say in my best fake American accent, which sounds more like a bad approximation of a southern drawl, I’ll admit.

“Don’t do that!” Rose growls, elbowing me.

“Do you want that mob after us?” I retort.

“They won’t try. They’re too busy—” She makes a gagging face. “...Partying, or whatever.”

“Celebrating the demise of democracy. How charming.”

We come upon more people on foot; everyone strolls about with an air of celebration like it’s Christmas or Fourth of July.

“This is chilling!” Rose hisses when we pass another smiling couple pushing a stroller. “Do you think they don’t know about the shooting? You could hear guns firing for miles!”

“After the Allies freed the concentration camp at Dachau the commanding officer ordered the town’s citizens to walk through the prison and witness the thousands of discarded bodies,” I recall.

“Oh my god that’s grim, why?”

“Most of the citizens didn’t believe mass murder was being carried out in their backyards.”

“Fuck!”

“As we’ve seen with this president, you can invent truth simply by getting enough people to believe it.”

“I don’t wanna die for his truth,” Rose snarls.

“You won’t,” I answer quickly. “I swear.”

Rosauers grocery store is across a busy street. I’ve never felt so naked and exposed standing at a crosswalk. It could be my imagination, but I feel hateful, leering eyes behind the windshield of every pickup, semi and SUV.

“Come,” I clamp a tight grip on Rose’s upper arm as we dash across the street. Surprisingly, the small gravel parking lot behind the store is relatively private.

Immediately, Rose spots her roommate.

“Oh my god…” she breaks into a run across the lot and collides with a tall, freckled woman with shoulder-length auburn hair.

“I was so worried!”

“My god, Rose, I’m so glad you got out!”

A petite blonde with a Swedish braid wrapped around her head and a fierce septum piercing hovers around Rose and her roommate. She casts a wide-eyed look at me and then whispers none-too-quiet to the hugging roommates.

“Holy shit, is that baby daddy?”

 _You’re damned right I am, madam._ I approach with squared shoulders.

“Hux,” I say with a smirk and outstretched hand. 

“Kaydel,” she fires back with an acidic tongue, though she shakes my hand firmly like we’re about to broker a business deal.

“Hux,” Rose breaks away from her friend, “This is my roommate, Rey.”

“Hello!” Rey drags out the vowels like she’s taking that time to size me up. “I’m glad you’re here.”

I can almost hear the “finally” hanging off the end of her statement.

The stoniness in Rey’s gaze tells me she doesn’t expect much from me. How can she think highly of the tosser who impregnated her best friend and then broke her heart? Her thin sympathy tells me she’s been the one holding Rose’s hair and I’d better get in line. 

_She underestimates the fierceness of my attachment_ , I think wryly. I’ve already walked through death and hellfire for Rose, I think I can handle her imperious roommate.

“Who’s our ride?” Rose asks.

“It’s this guy Poe recommended,” Rey says. “He sounded like a bit of a loose cannon on the phone, but he’ll take us to Portland and he can get us through the checkpoints.”

“Checkpoints?” I bristle.

“Yeah, all the MAGA occupied states have border and highway checkpoints. Plus a fuckton of vigilantes driving around with guns sticking out of their pickups!” Kaydel chimes in. 

“And what are their credentials? Remind me why we’re entrusting ourselves to this person?” I demand, growing uneasy.

Just then, an enormous, battered windowless grey van rolls up to the parking lot. The brakes screech as it halts at a careless angle: unapologetically taking a parking space and a half.

“What a steaming pile of…” I begin.

“...Fucking garbage!” Kaydel gasps.

“Just give him a chance, alright?” Rey chides us, marching up to the dented vehicle. Exhaust sputters from the van’s tail.

With the kind of squeak that betrays a vehicle’s salvaged title, the driver’s side door grates open and out hops a rakish, silver-haired man in an open buffalo plaid shirt and a blue trucker hat. He has wrinkles like he’s in his early seventies but a devil-can-fuck-himself swagger like he’s in his early twenties. 

I dislike him immediately.

“You Rey?” he asks gruffly.

“I am.” She steps forward. “Thank you for coming.”

“You all still want to go to Portland?” He gives us a casual glance, but I immediately discern his scrutinizing eye. We’ve got a slippery bastard here.

“Yes,” Rey says firmly. “I have the payment for all of us.”

Rey scurries to a pink duffel and pulls out a crumpled brown paper bag. 

The unruly driver reaches inside and pulls out a plastic bag full of white… _what the fuck!?_

“This isn’t much, kid,” he says, tossing the bag in his hand like he’s some sort of scale. “I can take two of you for what this is worth.”

“No, my friend assured me…”

“This is the apocalypse, Princess, I don’t give charity rides.”

Rey flashes a look of alarm at us, but I’m slightly relieved. Judging by the disarray of that vehicle and its unscrupulous driver, perhaps it’s for the best that Rose and I can’t book passage. 

“How much do you need for two more?” Rose asks, the sound of desperation in her voice shaming my attitude.

“Dunno.” He shrugs. “What do you got?”

“Um…” Rose rummages through my backpack. “I know there’s a bottle of wine…”

“I can still go to the store and get wine, kid, it’s not like the fuckers are after old white guys.”

Kaydel snorts disdainfully.

My heart lifts. I don’t want to leave with this suspicious stranger, and now it’s not my fault we can’t go with him. This is the perfect excuse.

But then, damn me to heaven and back:

Rose looks up at me with those velvet brown eyes. It’s like she knows I have cards to play, but will I play them to get what _I_ want or what _she_ wants?

Her words from earlier come back to me, _“You could have backed me up!”_

“Will you take this?” I unstrap my watch from my wrist.

“I don’t need a watch, buddy.”

“It’s a Garmin Marq, worth two thousand dollars.” I hold it out to him. “It has GPS with extremely accurate topography and twelve days of battery life. And it connects with your smartphone.”

The driver takes the watch with curiosity, but he frowns.

“I only use burner phones,” he says.

“That’s because he can’t work a smartphone,” a deep, gravely voice booms from the van window.

“Ignore Chewie,” the driver scoffs. “He doesn’t know shit.”

I explain how to access the watch’s features and finally, the man seems amenable.

“Okay, I’ll take all four of you,” he announces, opening the back door. “Get in.”

Kaydel and Rey scramble inside, with Rose close behind. She clutches the panel of the door and swings a leg up awkwardly, obviously offset by her growing belly. It hits me like a bolt of lightning how much I love her just then: fiercely stubborn, precariously clambering on her own terms. Even though she has at her complete and utter disposal a 6’2” ladder for a man. She turns around and offers me a hand.

“Thank you,” she says in a small voice, dropping her gaze shyly. Sooty lashes brush against her glowing cheeks. My radiant sunshine. 

I decide to be brave for the third time today. 

Grasping her soft little hand, I step halfway into the van so my face is level with hers. I’m inches away, but she doesn’t move back. Her breath intakes sharply, her lips part, eyes aching.

 _So, do it._ Her brow provokes me with a coy flick.

So I do.

I take her mouth with mine and she moans, relenting against me like a gentle sea crashing with my lips. She presses in warm and wet, letting me claim her with my tongue. My fingers seize the back of her silken hair in an insistent fist. 

I trace her sweet edges: giving and giving, and she drinks me in. Our lips part damply and I whisper,

“I’ve been wanting you for so long. I need you.”

She laughs breathlessly. Life flushes in her cheeks and brightens her eyes.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't begin to express what a nice escape it has been to write this. Perhaps it's my confrontational nature that makes me *want* to deal with some of the specific themes going on right now, but it sure feels nice to pivot those feelings toward a soft, romantic vibe. 
> 
> What do you think? How are you doing?


	5. Evasive Maneuvers

Highway 395 takes us through the bottom right corner of Washington State. It’s a vast, hilled expanse through the vehicle’s two small windows on the back door. Unremarkable, really. I imagine the van is a small bacterium skittering it’s way across the endless, identical slopes of brushy ground that look like the zoomed-in picture of skin from a lotion commercial. 

The vehicle has only two seats occupied by the repugnant driver, one Han Solo, and his broad-shouldered, mop-headed companion, Chewie. At their insistence, classic rock jangles out of the scratchy stereo. The rest of us bounce around the back of the van like loose change in a tin can. Rey and Kaydel slump against one wall next to a stack of milk crates filled with god-knows-what. Rose curls up next to me with our backs pressed to the cold steel.

After the kiss, Rose pulled my foolish, giddy ass into the van and muttered something to her shocked friends as we took our seats. I couldn’t immediately understand the reason for their looks, Kaydel’s suspicious glare and Rey’s glowering disappointment, but at the moment I was still glowing from Rose’s searing kiss. 

She cozied up to me like I was a tall, skinny cushion making the metal surfaces of the van a little more bearable. Or perhaps her shoulder rubbing up against my chest and her knees folded halfway in my lap were a continuation of that intimate moment with our lips. 

I didn’t want to assume things.

Or maybe my sneaky arm sliding behind her back made all the assumptions.

At any rate, I pulled her close to me, the van chugged down the highway, the friends scowled and the whole country was upside down, but I was the happiest, smug fucker in the entire inland northwest.

“Finn and Poe texted that they’re alright,” Rey says.

“God, I’m so relieved!” Rose replies.

“They sneaked across the border to Pullman and got a ride to Seattle last night.”

“They’re safer now, I’m sure,” sighs Rose.

Kaydel clicks her tongue.

“Shit is totally crazy out there, the right wing news is saying anti-Trump Antifa rallies started all this and now the National Guard is all screwed up because the president won’t claim responsibility.”

“How does one even reason with people clinging to an entirely different reality?” I interject.

Rey and Kaydel blink beady-eyed at me like I’m not invited into this conversation.

“I’m not a Trump supporter,” I say, faltering.

Rose squeezes my hand. It mustn’t be that.

“Well.” Kaydel lifts her phone. “I’m due for another doom scroll.”

“Oh, stay off Facebook, Kay,” Rey scolds.

The girlfriends pour their attention into their screens but Rey’s high top casually slides over Kaydel’s leg. Kaydel rests her head on the jean jacket shoulder of her lover, a companionable entwinement.

Rose rests heavier against me, lulled by the steady rattle and droning hum of the vehicle. Her head nods and her eyelashes drift up and down slowly. I watch her like a stalker, drinking in the tiny movements of her face as she falls asleep.

The van bucks with a heart-stopping jolt and Rose’s eyes fly open. Her hand flutters to her belly and clutches its small curve.

“Are you alright?” I squeeze her, hardly believing what I’m seeing.

“Yeah,” she says thinly. Her hand hasn’t moved.

My heart thunders in my ears with wild hope. Could she have a connection with that tiny spark inside of her? That face with my lips and nose?

I glance up at Rose’s friends, still buried in their phones. Now is hardly the time to ask.

Instead, my skin swarms with heat as Rose strokes slow, tender circles over that blip of roundness swelling up from between her hips. She unconsciously smooths her baggy shirt flush around a perfect, emerging-melon shape. I hardly breathe as she drifts back to sleep that way.

 _She told you she didn’t want it._ But did she ever say that specifically? Could she be changing her mind? _This is the worst time to have a baby, anyone can see that._ I wrestle with my instincts.

My body itches to respond to her, to answer her heart-squeezing posture. Maybe I could lace my fingers with hers, sheltering what we made. Oh, but that seems quite bold. Maybe too assertive of what I want.

Instead, I lean my head down and kiss her forehead: a soft, lingering _yes_. She makes a small noise and I gently pull away, letting her sleep.

I take out my phone and punch in my search engine: “ _things babies need.”_

For three hours, I lose myself in articles, parenting blogs and bright, garish lists of products especially designed to capitalize on that vulnerable, bleeding ache just inside my chest. And Rose sleeps. She yawns and lays her head down on my lap, blissfully unaware of my secret dreams and fifteen hundred dollar shopping cart.

I’m reading reviews for a product designed to measure infant breathing while they sleep (there’s concern they suddenly won’t breathe?!) when we roll to a stop. The oldies music dims with a twist of Chewie’s wrist on the volume knob. Han pulls a red trucker hat out of the drink console and tugs it over his silver hair. Pocketing their phones, Rey and Kaydel cast bewildered glances at one another.

“We’ve stopped,” I whisper, resting my hand protectively on Rose’s shoulder. She stirs in my lap, but doesn’t open her eyes. 

“Stay down, kids,” Han grunts quietly. He shifts the van into park and cranks down the squeaky window.

A muffled, authoritarian voice barks from outside.

“Yep, headed from Kennewick down to a job in Umatilla,” Han says, draping his elbow casually out the window. 

I can’t make out what the gruff, male voice says, but I catch the words “Antifa” and “border.” It doesn’t sound like they’re letting suspicious vans cross state lines.

“Yeah, I get that, but old Mrs. Kin’s plumbing isn’t gonna fix itself,” Han argues good naturedly. “Did you know she’s a Vietnam War widow?”

Whoever’s outside doesn’t sound convinced.

“Listen. pal.” Han leans out the window. “Between you and me, I’m barely making cost on this, but letting that sweet old widow go without plumbing on a… a… special day like today?”

Han shakes his head and the sunlight flashes off the rim of his aviators.

“Well that wouldn’t be _Christian_ , now would it?”

Whatever the man is saying, it's not good. Chewie starts to shift uneasily in his seat.

Rose blinks blearily and flicks her gaze upward. Her body stiffens as she absorbs her friends’ strained, wary expressions. My grip goes rigid on her shoulder; each breath comes shallow through my clenched teeth. Tension winds tight like a string about to snap.

“Sure.” Han eases back in his seat. “You can check the back. Nothin but tools and shit.”

My heart stops.

Han leans casually toward Chewie.

“You see a spike strip, or can we end this boring conversation?” he asks quietly shifting the van into drive.

“No spikes,” Chewie murmurs.

Han shrugs.

“Well, we tried.”

Quicker than lightning, Han floors the gas pedal. Chewie snatches up a pistol and bursts through the sunroof, peppering a shower of gunfire behind us. Yells and shots reply, pinging loudly off the metal van.

Like a bad dream, the back window shatters and glass rains in a hundred shimmering shards over the passengers. A scream pierces the _tat tat tat_ of bullets and Kaydel clings to Rey. 

“Hang on!” Han yells.

An enormous, splintering crash breaks around the nose of the van and we fly down the highway at top speed. Helicopter sounds deafen the cabin from the open back window, lifting papers and wrinkled receipts, swirling them around us.

Not far behind, a red pickup follows in hot pursuit with the black noses of semi automatics jutting out its windows.

_Tat tat tat tat!_

“Fuck, they’re behind us!” I shout. Unceremoniously, I brush the glass off Rose and shove her into the corner behind the front passenger seat, stacking the backpacks in front of us like a shield.

“Oh god,” Rose moans, cramped against my back.

Chewie climbs down from the sunroof and sets his pistol in the drink console. He grunts, rummaging in the front passenger area, clicking pieces of weaponry together.

“Good, go for the bigger magazine, you hairball,” Han scolds. _How can he be so calm?_

Chewie scoffs and hefts an enormous assault weapon through the sunroof.

 _KAKAKAKAKAKAKAK_

Overhead, heavy rounds of gunfire spit at the angry red pickup. With a violent pop, the truck loses speed and veers off the highway. Shouts and a few lame duck shots follow us, but the vigilante border patrol does not.

Han lets out a rebel yell and slaps the steering wheel.

“Lost em again, you old bastard!” 

Chewie climbs down and disassembles his rifle.

“Won’t they just alert another checkpoint?” I shout over the thundering of the open window.

“Naw,” Han replies scornfully. “These asshats aren’t organized, they’re just limp-dick cocksuckers finally getting a chance to live out their cowboy fantasy.”

“Sure feels like the wild west out here,” Rose says ruefully.

“There’s glass everywhere!” Kaydel complains, flicking shards off her wide-leg jeans.

Chewie hands back a roll of duct tape and Rey tears apart a cardboard box to go about patching the window. It’s a hell of a lot quieter with the opening covered, though Rey never manages to fully eliminate a dull whistle no matter how many strips of tape she stretches over the edges of the cardboard. She fusses with the tape and cardboard for some time while the rest of us use our feet to slide the bits glass into the back corner of the van.

“Wow, that is a _lot_ …” Rose points at the large plastic bags spilling from the other half of the repurposed box. Dark green leaves cluster inside each one.

“Ooo, nice.” Kaydel snatches up a bag and sniffs discerningly. She pops open the plastic and a distinct skunk smell fills the cabin. Swiveling around, she thumbs through her handbag until she produces a slip of paper.

“Excuse me.” I frown. “I’d prefer it if you don’t smoke in here.”

Kaydel glares at me like I’m some kind of stick in the mud. Then she follows my gaze to Rose and her expression changes.

“Relax, baby daddy.” Kaydel says, vaguely mocking me. “THC is fine for preggos in small doses.”

“Perhaps, but smoke is most certainly not,” I answer, sounding prickly. The word _baby_ makes the hair on my arms stand up. I wonder what Rose is thinking, but she acts like she’s not listening and watches Rey struggle with taping the window.

“Stay out of the ganja, kids.” Han peers into the rearview mirror.

“Narc!” Kaydel snarls at me. “Come on, this is good shit!” she protests.

“Yeah and it will get us into Portland if there’s trouble,” he says. “This is the apocalypse economy, sweetheart.”

Kaydel sneers and mimics his face, silently mouthing the word ‘sweetheart’, but resignedly, she tucks the weed back into the spilling box.

I wait for Rose to scold me for my blustering overprotectiveness but she sinks toward me silently. She slides her arms around my middle and says nothing.

 _What does it mean?_ My heart flops like a netted fish. There’s so much to discuss with her, and not the setting or energy to do it. So we hold each other instead, letting the tender inclinations of our bodies do the talking. There’s a lot to be said that way, too.

Resting my head against the cold steel, I shut my eyes and savor her soft curves pressed up to me. It’s bitingly cold in the uninsulated van, but still I’m tempted to take off my coat, if only to strip away everything hindering me from feeling the plush give of her. The image of tearing off our clothing curls warmly in the base of my stomach and my cock starts to fill and throb.

A quick glance tells me Rey and Kaydel are occupied. They crowd around Rey’s phone, their heads close, their hushed gasps and soft moans indicating horrible news unfolding beyond these endless, brushy hills of rural Oregon. Somehow, I can’t be bothered to ask about the latest headline.

I do care about the news. It’s wretched, what’s going on. But surprisingly, I find that nurturing my fragile bond with this woman amid the horror of the last day and half has spurred me to a kind of frenetic hedonism. I don’t want to die. I want this soft angel on her back with her thighs spread for me. I want to fill her hot little clutch with all the fierceness of my will to live.

Shit, I’m straining against the button fly of my dark jeans now. 

Rose sighs contentedly and my heart punches with the gentle, cushiony movements of her breasts and belly against me. 

If it was just the two of us and we were anywhere but this rusty bin, I would seize the meat of her thighs and pull her legs over my hips. I would tear open those taunting track pants that reveal her sumptuous ass so tantalizingly. I’d pull her fluttering pussy down on my cock and grope her everywhere while she rode me to her screaming, drenching end. 

Then, I’d lay her gently, oh god so gently, on her back and kiss her whiskey golden neck where the sweat pools just below her throat. I’d drag my tongue over it just to hear her whine. Oh yes, her toes would curl as I pulled off her shirt and took each full, juicy breast in my mouth, catching her nipples between my teeth. 

Have we lost the pants already? Yes, I’ll slowly bite a trail of tiny red marks up the inseam of each thigh until her pussy gushes —so desperate for me. Slowly, I’d nuzzle in between her shining, raven-haired lips and suck on her slick pink labia and…

Hng… Jesus Christ, Armitage, rein it in… 

I scrunch my eyes shut. My whole body stiffens to ward off that surge; my cock throbs on its brink. One wrong move and I’m going to…

“SHIT!” Han yells. “No, no, NO! Goddamn it!”

The van loses power, the dials on the dashboard droop down to zero and the vehicle coasts in defeat. Han wheels us over to the shoulder of the highway just as the van slows to a halt. 

Chewie mumbles low and growly while Han cusses and throws the gear shift into park. He flings open the driver side door and cranks open the van’s hood.

“Shit!” is Han’s assessment.

“Unnggg… Jesus.” Chewie gets out of the car and lumbers over to the open hood where his companion is in the middle of a meltdown.

“That sounds bad,” Rose murmurs into the lapel of my coat.

“This piece of trash was on the verge of blowing up long before we left from Moscow,” Kaydel says darkly.

“I’d better have a look.” Rey gets up off the metal floor and pops open the back door.

I squeeze Rose.

“Do you want to stretch your legs?”

“Yeah,” she replies. “I have to pee, too.”

We crawl out of the van and into a surprisingly bright afternoon. The bare, scabby sprawl of endless sand features hardly a sagebrush. A now defunct row of telephone poles stagger along the highway like a sad approximation of trees. Up ahead, a blue billboard bleached by the sun reads “ALLSTATE: ARE YOU IN GOOD HANDS?”

Judging by the tantrum of our driver, I’m not sure.

Rose zips up her jacket and pulls her hood up around her head. A dry wind picks up around us, whipping the loose tendrils of her hair about her face. Several fine strands of black hair stick to her lips. I pull them away with the back of my middle finger against her cheek.

“You look like a scary ice vampire in this stark light,” Rose says, shivering. She clutches my arm.

“What’s an ice vampire?” The corner of my mouth hitches up.

“Dunno,” she says flirtatiously. “But if they existed, you would be one.”

“Why?”

She squints.

“Your face is so pale, it’s like bánh tráng.” She skims her fingertips over my cheekbone. “You know, rice paper. It makes your lips look stained with blood and your hair sorta… shocking.” 

“I don’t think I like that.” I smile wryly.

I pull her against me as another burst of harsh wind rushes around our ears like a noisy freight train. As loudly as the gust buffets our eardrums, I still hear her muffled words.

“I do.”

_She likes me._

“Rose.” I hold her cheeks with both hands. Wild coils of dark hair wheel around the hood of her jacket, framing her guileless, tender-eyed face.

She’s waiting for me, for anything I have to say.

_Don’t fuck it up this time._

Fear swamps my veins like the furrowed paths of a well-worn road.

_You’re going to botch it again._

I choke on my words.

_Terrific work, moron._

My stomach sinks and I almost don’t hear the squeaking of large automobile brakes. 

When we turn around, an even bigger, dirty white van comes to a halt behind the broken down rust bucket.

With a screech, the front passenger window rolls down and a tough, weather-beaten blonde woman pops her head out the window. She has smudged eyeliner on, not in a way that’s particularly pretty, but like she’s put it on that way for the last thirty years and it suits her just fine, thank you.

“Hey, you all headed to the Patriot rally?” she says in a voice that tells me she’s kind, but tolerates no-nonsense.

Rey shoots Rose a nervous look.

“Why yes,” Han says, clearly sarcastic to anyone who knows him. “We were just headed that way, but my friend Chewie here promised he replaced this timing belt a month ago, so unfortunately we’ll have to miss it.”

Chewie snorts gruffly into the hood of the van but ignores Han.

“Hop in,” the woman says. “There’s a NAPA in Boardman, I’m sure you can pick up something after the rally. We’ll give you a lift back.”

“Now, hold on!” Kaydel storms toward Han.

“Ah, ah…” Han raises his hand to stop Kaydel in her tracks. “We would appreciate a ride into town, ma’am, thank you.” The steady pitch of his voice tells us that he’s decided and we’d better all go along with it. The fucking hubris.

“Alright.” The woman swivels around in her seat. “Back to the fourth row, kids! Come on, cozy in, now!”

“Fourth row?” Kaydel makes a disgusted face. “How many kids are in that car?”

It turns out to be eight kids. But with fourteen proper seatbelts and plenty of bench space, the six of us are able to cram into the middle two rows. 

“Jesus,” Kaydel mutters, wiping crumbs, crayons and god-knows-what off her section of grey fabric. Rey reaches over the seat row toward her girlfriend, visibly smoothing her jangled nerves with a gentle squeeze of her shoulder.

The cacophony behind us created by this stranger’s brood is deafening. I hardly dare to look behind me at the swarm of limbs, juice boxes and coloring books. Honestly, it’s best not to examine any surface in this vehicle.

Rose crams next to a car seat strapping down a sticky-faced blonde child with wide blue eyes. 

“Hi,” she says, smiling.

The child solemnly jams a soggy cracker between the buckles of his seatbelt, snapping it in half. Crumbs rain everywhere. My flesh crawls.

_Perfect, this will definitely open her mind to the idea of becoming a parent._

I stare at my shoes so I don’t have to watch the horrible toddler drive his mangled cracker along the splattered armrest, growling like a motorcycle.

Rose snorts, holding back a good-natured laugh.

I think about the image burned in my mind, that grey, grainy sonogram. Surely, if my spawn has already inherited my face, he’ll revile messes as much as I do.

Oh, now I’ve really done it, haven’t I? _He._ Could just as well be a she. The thought makes my heart soft-kick against the wall of my chest.

Han is carrying on a very friendly dialogue with the woman in the front passenger’s seat. She doesn’t strike me as the type to be fooled by a man like him, but she enjoys his charm with an enthusiastic pitch of her voice and friendly crinkles around her eyes. 

From where I’m sitting, I can just make out the driver. A thin, gaunt man with dark brown hair and a sullen face reflecting in the windshield like a ghost. He doesn’t say anything at all.

“Eight?” Han drawls. “Well, you don’t look old enough to have eight children, Mrs. Mitaka.”

“Oh, you stop that!” She flushes, not buying it --but flattered all the same. “I’m thankful for all of my angels.”

One of the angels shoves what feels like a pencil into the back of the seat, prodding my ass. Although to be fair, I suppose I did abscond their spot. I cast a furtive glance out the window. Where the hell is this town?

“Do you have any children, Mr. Jones?” Mrs. Mitaka asks.

“One.” Han’s voice tightens, ever so slightly. “He’s kinda fallen away… From the Lord, that is.”

“Hmmm, all we can do is pray for those ones.” She nods sympathetically.

“Psst.” Rey nudges me. “I’m not really comfortable with the idea of this ‘Patriot rally.’”

“Me neither,” I reply.

“No.” She frowns, flicking a pointed glance at Kaydel. “We won’t be particularly welcome in the literal belly of the beast! At least not in Boardman, Oregon!”

“I’m sure Han will just get the part and we can go?” I wince.

When we take an exit, we see a moldering sprawl of buildings clustered on the edge of the Columbia River. At the cusp of the town is a naked white spire.

“What’s that?” Rose asks.

“That’s the coal plant,” Mrs. Mitaka says coldly. “Shut down by those greenie leftists, gutting this whole town. Most everybody here had a family member lose their job.” 

“Gosh,” Rose says.

“Yeah, it’s almost like the government cares more about the spotted owls than their own people,” Han chimes in.

“Wrong industry,” Chewie grunts, just loud enough so I can hear. “That’s logging, the spotted owl thing.”

“Shut up,” Han hisses.

“You’re absolutely right.” Mrs. Mitaka swings around in her seat. “And now that _somebody_...” She waggles her eyebrows. “...Was actually trying to bring back the coal industry, the Satan-worshipping pedophiles stole the election.”

_Here we go._

My brain chews more irritatedly on the false claim that Trump actually lived up to his promises to help the failing coal industry, but that’s only because I have no earthly idea how I would ever respond to that QAnon horseshit. Not that there’s any responding to be done now.

I’ve never been so relieved to see a dingy auto parts store in my entire life.

The van pulls up to the parking lot and Kaydel yanks the door open before the vehicle screeches to a halt.

But when I look into the darkened window of the store, my hope deflates.

“It’s closed,” I announce.

“Goddamnit!” Han spits.

“Oh, isn’t that just like old Rax to close up and join the goings-on!” Mrs. Mitaka chuckles. “We’ll find him at the rally, I’ll let him know you need something.”

She wheels around again and gives Kaydel a scolding eye.

“You close that door, hun.”

“Uh…” Kaydel throws a horrified glance at Rey.

“It’s alright, Kay,” Rey says, as if she’s worried Kaydel might leap out of the van and run down the street. “Kay?”

Slowly, like she’s deciding whether to detonate a bomb, Kaydel slides the van door shut. She sinks stiffly back into her seat and the van makes a lazy u-turn.

A rigid silence sweeps over our company.

This could be bad. Extremely bad. 

Had I known we were headed into the lion’s den, would I have had the courage to say what I felt earlier to Rose? What if… horrible shit happens, and I don’t get the chance?

I grasp Rose’s hand and catch her eye.

“Listen to me,” I say, taking her hand in both of mine. My chest pounds.

I have no idea what I’m about to say, but there’s no time to think about it.

“I’m not letting you go ever again, do you understand?”

Her eyes widen, she nods gravely.

“Not ever,” I say.


	6. False Flag

The Mitaka van pulls onto an enormous field and parks between a hummer and jacked pickup in a makeshift parking lot. Already, the boom of a muffled audio system eclipses all other sounds. People wearing flag-festooned garments filter from the parking lot toward a giant circus tent set up over a baseball diamond.

Already, light is falling in long shadows across the lot. The sky streaks with pink and a damp, frigid chill descends over Boardman, Oregon.

“You got your coats, kids?” Mrs. Mitaka chirps.

The shrieks and cries in the back of the van triple as the horde unbuckles from their seats. Their mother combats this by yelling over our heads.

“Thomas! Do not pinch Felicity! That’s Christopher’s jacket, Abigail!”

Kaydel has the door open in seconds and bolts out, sprinting across the yellow grass.

“She’s claustrophobic,” Han says sarcastically.

I exit as quickly as I can and hold out a hand for Rose to dismount. Bitter chill bites at our faces. In the twilight, my breath fogs in misty bursts. We watch Rey catch up with Kaydel on the edge of the parking lot.

“Do what you want, but meet us back here in an hour,” Han says. “Chewie and I’ll find this Rax character and get the timing belt.”

The jubilant sounds coming from the tent makes me doubtful these people are as eager to attend to Han’s needs as he thinks.

“Two hours,” I say. “But we’re not staying a minute longer, Solo.”

“Relax, Red.” Han puts his hands up defensively. “We’ll get your girlfriend out of here.”

The Mitakas busily regroup with coats and shoes and squawking toddlers. Mr. Mitaka solemnly carries an enormous casserole with blue cling film stretched over the top. His filmy, sleep-deprived eyes look perpetually drained, the preyed-upon sunkenness of his features send a dart of fear through me. 

_God, is that what fathers look like?_

“By the way,” Han leans close to me and Rose. “You’d better act the part while you’re here. These people aren’t like the rich Trump pundits you’ve seen on TV. They’ve been festering in a cesspool of 1950s idealism and religious fanaticism that’s been rotting out here unchecked. They think of Trump as some kind of messiah.”

“ _Messiah!?”_ Rose recoils.

“Just don’t try to be smart, alright, Red?”

I scoff quietly.

“Understood,” I reply snarkily.

The group starts to move toward the tent, and I grasp Rose’s hand.

“We don’t have to go in there,” I say, mostly for my own sake.

“It’s terrifying,” Rose says. “But I’m so cold and nothing else we passed in this town is open. Besides, I’m pretty sure I smelled bacon in that green bean dish the Mitakas brought.”

My lips twist to hold back the absurd smile Rose Tico elicits from me. I’m tempted to choose hypothermia over getting within throwing distance of domestic terrorists, and Rose is thinking about the buffet line.

“You would give up your morals for bacon?” I whisper.

“Um, yeah, I’m starving,” she scoffs.

The Mitakas’ cracker-encrusted child reaches up for Rose’s hand as we make the trepidatious walk into the infernal den of nonsense.

Indeed, when we enter the pavilion, a great crowd of people in rows of metal chairs sing and clap along with a hymn. Or at least I think the song is an approximation of a hymn by way of poorly executed country music. Either way, it makes my skin crawl. I can’t tell if I’m more repulsed by the music or the complete lack of masks across the board. My only relief is that there are no guns anywhere inside the tent.

Rose was right. At the back of the tent is a row of plastic tables covered in red-gingham vinyl tablecloths and an enormous array of hot food. Platters, crockpots, tureens, and casserole dishes; there’s enough food for twice the amount of people crammed in the tent. I’ve never been a casserole sort of person, but the hunger curling in my middle certainly eliminates my thought of preference.

I stand next to Rose by a propane heater, although it is a great deal warmer inside the sweaty tent. Before long, Rose unzips her jacket and I’m tempted to take off my wool peacoat. We stand there in silence, sweating.

More than anything, I want to talk to her. Since leaving Moscow, she’s been so quiet. I haven’t known her for long, but it doesn’t seem like her to be so subdued. Either she is more traumatized than I thought, or the growing list of things she and I need to talk about is shutting out all other thoughts.

Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, I pull her close to me.

We watch Han and his shadow, Chewie, make the rounds with the ever-gregarious Mrs. Mitaka. She introduces them to half the town before the next song is over.

“They’re never going to get that part tonight, are they?” Rose chuckles dryly.

“Doubt it,” I reply, though I don’t find it funny.

Three ear-splitting songs later, Mrs. Mitaka floats back toward us like the hostess of a grand party. I have no idea where Han and Chewie, or for that matter, her husband and children have gone.

“Come on kids,” she says, motioning to Rose and I. “Get in line for supper, don’t be shy! There’s plenty for everybody!”

Rose doesn’t need a second invitation.

We trail behind Mrs. Mitaka, “Just call me Phasma,” she tosses breezily over her shoulder.

The fare is exactly what one would expect. Mysterious casseroles with dubious ingredients, mostly untouched; several baskets of hawaiian rolls, which I avoid; one empty platter of what was probably the ‘good chicken,’ a crockpot of meatballs, which honestly smell rather good despite its sludgy appearance.

Rose indiscriminately selects one of everything. Phasma points out the better options, “Oh that’s Lisa Kin’s apple pie, you can’t miss that.” At the end of the line, Rose has a heaping paper plate towering with things all conglomerated together, while my plate has each of my choices not touching each other and a sparse representation of the few items not slathered in gluten. (Not that I’m allergic, it just seems to be a running theme.)

“Sit down with these folks here, you two.” Phasma brings us into a circle of younger locals. None of them look like us, but Phasma’s friendly tone smooths our entry: smiles and polite nods greet us as we join them. 

“Now, Rose and… what was your name, young man?” Phasma points at me with her plastic fork.

“Hux,” I reply stiffly, feeling all their eyes bore into me.

“That’s right. Funny name! This is Cardinal, he’s head of the local Young NRA chapter, and Tritt, he’s the pastor’s son!”

Phasma goes around the circle introducing each smalltown star, and I get the feeling she’s brought us into the cool-kids circle. 

“You’re from Moscow?” Tritt asks. “I’ve got a cousin there. Abe Opan?”

_Could he be one of the sick bastards who attacked the university?”_

“I haven’t met him, sorry,” I reply.

“Whoa!” Tritt sits back in his squeaky metal chair. “You’re from across the pond, now aren’t you?”

“Ah, yes.” I’m used to this sort of reaction. 

“Hey, do you know Milo Yiannopoulos?” Cardinal jumps in.

“Not personally,” I say, trying to withhold my disgust.

“I’m a huge fan of Yiannopoulos, he says it like it is.”

“Mmhm.” I bury my horror in a bite of salad.

Phasma pats Rose’s knee familiarly.

“When’s the baby due, hon?”

My stomach hits the roof of my mouth and Rose stiffens beside me. Even with Rose out of her puffy jacket I don’t think it’s that obvious… although who could fool a woman with eight children?

Rose coughs.

“Ju-July 23rd.”

I’m not sure if she just pulled this answer out of her head, but something tells me she didn’t.

The date sears my brain like a brand. _July 23rd._

_Summer baby._

“Is your neck ok, bud?” 

Cardinal is staring at the hot blotches blooming on my skin.

“I’m quite alright!” I fumble.

“You kids getting married then?” Phasma asks with a raise of her eyebrows.

_Fucking god in a box, the nerve!_

I nod when I see Rose’s head move slowly up and down.

“Now listen,” Phasma sits forward and settles in like she’s about to deliver a golden nugget of truth. “There is sweet redemption in a marriage forged out of missteps. Doph and I were living in a fifth wheel trailer in Hermiston, shooting up the H and stealing his grandma’s pension when we found out we were expecting Hope.”

Phasma rolls up her sleeves, revealing the white scarring left by track marks. Rose’s brows draw together in surprise.

“Well he and I got clean, we recommitted to the Lord and we got married two weeks before Hope was born. It’s been a tough road but one filled with more joy than I’d ever imagined.”

“Wow, I didn’t know that, Mrs. Mitaka,” Cardinal says.

“That must have been so hard,” Rose murmurs. “I’m glad you’re in a healthy place now.”

Phasma blinks back tears and points to the sky.

“Jesus saved me, when nobody else would help a cracked out teen, he gave me the strength.”

“Amen,” Tritt murmurs.

I grasp Rose’s hand and give it an apologetic squeeze.

She flashes me a glance, a look that tells me she’s seeing the humanity in these people.

Of course Rose would look at an embarrassing conversation and come out empathizing with the person who’d irresponsibly shamed her. She’s an angel.

I don’t trust this lot for a second. A surge of anxiety buzzes in my head as I look around at the insurrectionist symbols and clothing. What these people are about is deeply problematic, and I also recognize every human in this tent has a different story.

Scanning the crowd for Han, I see neither him nor his hairy friend.

“Mr. Solo went across town to a prayer meeting at Rax’s in-laws’ place,” Phasma says, reading my mind. “They’ll be here later!”

_Damn him, it’s been two hours already._

“Now honey.” Phasma’s interrogation of Rose is far from over. “You and your sweetie thought of any baby names yet?”

“Not sure,” Rose says, unconsciously covering her small curve with her hand. Her long dusky lashes flicker. Her voice softens with the tenderness of her words. “Ever since my sister died, I’ve wanted to name a daughter after her.”

Oh, this will kill me. I can’t keep learning Rose’s intimate secrets from conversations with militant Trump supporters. _Then why won’t I just buck up and ask?_

“That is so sweet,” Phasma coos. “What was your sister’s name?”

Rose’s lip trembles.

“Paige.”

“Do you know what you’re having?”

I want to cut in and answer, “a baby,” since sex and gender are entirely different things, plus the question is obscenely inappropriate for our situation. But Rose doesn’t seem as troubled as I.

“No,” she answers.

Phasma stands with a mischievous grin.

“Come on, then. Stand up and I’ll see, I’m always right about these things.”

“I’d put money on it, Mrs. M,” Cardinal says, although he turns away to join another conversation, his ears a bright red at hearing mention of uteruses and the like.

Rose stands up slowly, unsure what the woman has in mind.

“That won’t be necessary,” I jump in, sputtering, hoping to spare Rose the further embarrassment. “We’re keeping it a surprise.”

“Oh, hush, dad. It’s all in good fun!” Phasma snorts.

The woman studies Rose, tapping her lip.

I’m shocked that while Rose is most certainly flushed in the cheeks, she poses like she’s enjoying the attention.

And here’s the thing, I’ve seen Rose looking a little pregnant for two days, but the way she stands now is _quite pregnant._ Unmistakably, unapologetically. Heart-wrenchingly.

My skin burns into what must be a brilliant shade of red watching her shift her hips, smooth her shirt and hold her round belly. She looks like something out of a photograph: like a woman in love with carrying her baby. 

No. I can not handle this.

“Hmmm…” Phasma steps closer. She does not ask to touch.

Rose gasps a little when the woman slides scrutinizing hands over her bump.

_Kill me._

“Ah! There she is!” Phasma rubs fondly. “It’s a little Paige! A baby girl!”

“Oh…!” Rose melts. I think she might even be crying.

I’m nearly crying but it’s because I’m wishing an anvil would fall out of the sky and end my mortification.

Though I’m flustered beyond words, I can’t take my eyes off of Rose as they sit down and Phasma regales her with breastfeeding suggestions. It’s as if the hidden affection Rose accidentally revealed to me in the van is safe to come out, here —of all damn places. 

She doesn’t sit sunk back anymore, hiding her secret in the drape of her shirt and cardigan. Spine straight, she’s proudly popped her hips forward and rests a protective hand atop the curve of her full womb. 

It’s clear Rose is nodding along with Phasma but not listening to a thing she’s saying; I can almost hear Rose thinking. Feeling. Acclimating herself to a more public acceptance of the tiny stranger inside her body, or perhaps she’s just testing the idea as a theory?

What is Rose weighing in the balance of this decision? My chest aches to know.

When I can’t bear to look anymore, I take out my phone and type ‘June 23rd’ into the first pregnancy calendar that comes up on Google.

14 weeks and 6 days. That’s only 25 weeks until term. Nearly halfway through.

_“Your baby is the size of a pear.”_

A pear. Like a real little thing in my hand.

_“At fifteen weeks, your baby is growing eyelashes. They are now sensitive to bright light and sound; you can talk to your baby and they will hear you.”_

My throat closes around the surge of raw emotion.

The chatter stops.

When I look up from my phone, Phasma and Rose are staring at me.

“You ok, Hux?” Phasma blinks.

Rose slides a comforting hand around my knee and scoots closer to me. The expression on her face tells me I made some sort of tortured sound —as if I haven’t been embarrassed enough.

“Just…” I rub my forehead. “An awful lot going on.”

I close my phone with a click and watch my shoes prism and warp from under my pale lashes.

_Eyelashes._

The volume in the tent increases and the room starts to busy; people shuffle chairs back into forward-facing rows. Phasma gets up with promises to be right back.

I sit up, like awakening from a dream.

“Rose.” I take her hand. 

She slowly swings her head toward me, still dazed, as if her brain wants to rest in the cozy world Phasma spun of babies and diapers and proper rocking chairs.

But we are still rabbits in the wolf’s den.

“Let’s go,” I say, gently tugging her up with me as I stand. “Surely Han is back now.”

Clarity surfaces in her eyes.

“Hux, I think we should talk.” Her angel face mars with a pensive look.

I squeeze her hand.

“I know,” I reply. 

The thought of tiny eyelashes, as sooty black as hers, still catches in my throat.

Out of the corner of my vision, four familiar faces darken the entrance of the tent.

Kaydel motions for us to join them.

Rose rushes to the door and crushes Rey with a hug.

“Oh my god, where did you go?” she asks.

“We went with Han and Chewie,” Rey replies.

“Yeah, it was like this awkward meeting to pray that God would make America more Trumpy or some shit,” Kaydel pipes in. “Super crazy, like people tweaking out on Jesus or whatever!" 

I turn to Han with my own question.

“Did you get the part?” I clip.

But the driver’s face is drained of blood. He stares at the other side of the tent like he’s been shot.

“Good evening, everyone,” a deep, subsonic voice ripples like an earthquake from the old speaker system. “Thank you all for being here.”

Han’s lips part with shock.

“What’s the matter?” I hiss.

He looks at me.

“Ben.”


	7. Reconciliation

_Five months earlier._

Rose’s body flushes with hot frustration. She grips the handle and tugs downward.

“One more thing,” she says, pausing. A last ditch effort. “If student housing is willing to add more, _diversity considerations,_ as you called them, will you actually consult students of color at this school to find out what those are?”

“Rose...” The dean, Amilyn Holdo shuffles uncomfortably in her seat. “You are a wonderful advocate for your friends, I appreciate you bringing this to my attention. Thank you for your time.”

 _So that’s a no, then._ Rose’s shoulders slump.

She flings open the door and doesn’t care when it slams behind her. The hallway blurs with the dampness in her eyes.

When she blinks, a familiar figure straightens up from where he leaned against the wall. 

_It’s him._

She hadn’t noticed before his black sweater and crisp gray slacks: a stern look on his tall, leggy form. Those severe, spun-gold brows draw together when he sees her face. The ember-red strands mussed from his mean, slicked-back style tells her he’s been running his hand through his hair. 

“Oh,” Rose pauses. “Were you outside that whole time?” She flushes.

“I suppose I have a vested interest in the outcome of your case,” he says, his lips twitching. 

He has a cool wryness about his features that doesn’t fool her for a moment: she can see the gold glimmering around the edges of his austere mein. Her stomach flutters.

It had been so validating when he backed her up earlier. She didn’t have much of a plan when she’d burst into the office looking for the dean. Weeks of blown-off emails and more friends dropping out of school had exploded into that charge-of-the-light-brigade moment. She hadn’t expected anyone to listen.

But he had. 

In that awkward pause after her impassioned speech before the entire office, the whole room stood silent. Then, some redheaded, skinny office guy bolted up in his seat, upsetting his coconut water, “I understand what you’re saying, I’ll get you a meeting with Miss Holdo right now.”

 _He understood her_.

“Well, sorry to disappoint, but the dean gave me a dumb beureoucratic answer,” Rose says, boiling with irritation. She pauses, absorbing the concern on his fair features. Gratitude washes over her. “Thanks for making Holdo meet with me. It was kind of crazy of me to just barge in here.”

“I’m sorry your concerns weren’t addressed.” He takes a conciliatory step toward her. “Truly a terrible lack of vision —a missed opportunity.”

“Yeah.” Rose’s eyes start to gloss again. A wave of post-adrenaline vulnerability crashes into her.

Tears slide down her cheeks.

“Ah.” His arm wraps around her shoulders. “Come with me.”

Rose buries her face in her hands as he leads her across the open office area. She doesn’t have to look at the secretaries and administrators she just blurted in front of half an hour ago. He shields her with his tall, dark-clothed form, hovering around her like a stiff, awkward angel.

In the bathroom, the tears really start to flow.

“...And when Kare dropped out, I just couldn’t take it anymore you know?” Rose sniffs. “It’s different when your parents don’t have buckets of money and you’re paying for everything yourself. It’s so unfair for the school to raise costs for a rock gym when students from underprivileged backgrounds literally don’t have time to dick around with shit like that!”

He hands her another tissue.

“I entirely agree,” he says softly.

“Kare worked with me at the burger shack, there’s no way she would have used a freakin rock gym, and now she has no way to use her degree until she can find a way to get back into a masters program.”

“Dreadfully unfair.”

Rose wipes her nose, but the moisture keeps tracking down her cheeks.

“You know, I almost quit a few times because I was so tired. Between my program and working and pressure from my parents and wading through all the bullshit assumptions and gatekeeping of a male-dominated field, I’ve just felt so worn out.”

His copper filigree brows knit as he studies her.

“I hear what you’re saying. There’s an inequitable burden on you and your peers.”

Rose’s heart thuds. _Finally, somebody is listening._ His soft look sends warmth spiraling down into the base of her stomach and her toes curl every time he speaks with that sexy British accent. He’s so kind.

“Yeah,” she replies, her voice wavering. “Almost all the bros in my program have only themselves to think about, but if I fail, I’m not just disappointing my immigrant parents. I’m dooming them to work at the dry cleaners in Spokane until they drop dead. The Ticos don’t just expect me to become a fancy-ass electrical engineer, they fucking _need me to._ ”

The air rushes out of her lungs when he takes her hand. Her pulse spikes, but the look in his eye isn’t arousal exactly. 

Where before his rare dearness had peeked from the corners of him, now he threw the door open, showing her his golden heart. 

Pink blooms upward from the collar of his sweater, and on his face he wears admiration thick enough to make her blush too.

“You are so brave,” he says.

He doesn’t take more than her hand. He doesn’t push her. She laces their fingers together and blinks up into his clear, haunting gaze. His eyes remind her of Priest River in the clear mornings of summer: a cool, vivid green.

“Hey, do you want to get out of here?” she asks with a little smile. “I could use a drink.”

“I’d like that,” he says.

“I’m Rose Tico, by the way.”

“Hux,” he replies. “Armitage Hux.”

  
  
  


The walls of the tent reverberate with the speaker’s deep, liquid voice. 

He’s taller than me, probably 6’3’’ or even 4 and with shoulders built like bricks, their enormous packs shifting under his plaid button-down shirt with his movements. Shoulder-length, curly dark hair splashes at his scruffy chin. The man carries an undercurrent of power that tilts the entire room toward his gravitational energy. 

“Do you know him?” I whisper to Han.

“That’s my son, Ben,” he replies darkly.

“You’re shitting me!” I snarl. “Your son is an alt-right speaker? You didn’t think to mention that when I entrusted my vulnerable… Shouldn’t we get out of here?” 

“I thought he was in Salem.” Han doesn’t take his eyes off the man at the podium. The lines in his wrinkled skin deepen with sadness.

“This is hardly the time or place for a family reunion, Solo,” I step closer to him. “Now, we paid you—”

Han lifts his hand, silencing me.

Clearly, I’m not getting through to him.

“You know,” Ben holds the microphone close to his scruffy moustache, “Every time I pass Boardman, Oregon, I think about the misguided policies that put hard working Oregonians out of business. Did you know that last year in China, they built three times as many coal plants as the rest of the world combined? And yet you people are supposed to lose your jobs, while the United States contributes only 15% of energy-related emissions.”

This insipid logic is exactly what irks me. _A reduction in coal is what drives our decreased energy emissions, you moron._

“Anti-business policy, anti-economic policy, _communist policy_ is what’s drowning towns like Boardman, believe me. How many shops have gone out of business because everyone had to stay inside? Or because nobody could come out without a mask? Or because the state health deparment came and shut down their restaurant?” The pitch of Ben’s voice escalates. “But all that is about to change, am I right, people?”

Enthusiastic cheers rattle the tent. The frothing fervency growing in this crowd is making me nervous. 

“We have watched the left try to silence us and gaslight us,” Ben continues. “Do you remember seeing those statistically impossible vote changes in Wisconsin and Michigan? Or the videos of GOP ballot counters locked out of their stations? Or the thousands of people who found they had ‘already voted by mail?’ Or that their dead parents voted?”

“Really, now,” I snarl under my breath. _Hogshit._

“Do you remember watching the courts ignore the hundreds of signed affidavits alleging suspicious activity? Ignoring the suspicious mail-in ballots in Arizona, Pennsylvania, Georgia? Do you think any of those ballots were for Donald Trump?”

“NO!” the crowd replies.

“Why were the testimonies to the Michigan State House Oversight Committee ignored? The doctored poll book overlooked?” Ben bellows. 

“Wait, is he talking about drunk Cecily Strong on SNL?” Kaydel mutters snidely.

“The unwillingness of the Supreme Court to stand behind the will of the people!” His voice tops out the microphone volume, blasting with gritty distortion. “Is this the America that the revolutionaries in 1776 fought to create? The liberty my dad fought in Vietnam to uphold? An America that silences the voice of the people?

“We want an end to this corruption!” Ben waves his arms.

“Hell yeah!” someone chimes in.

“Yes!”

“We are not deplorables, we are the American people!” 

Tension in the tent escalates like a gathering storm. Movements, murmurs and shouts cast a foreboding that I can physically feel.

Sweat spirals off the ends of Ben’s curls. His forehead glistens; his nostrils flair with exertion. He’s woven the crowd into his seething power and now he drives them into the crux of his message.

“I’m not going to stand around and listen to somebody tell me that they can take my voice, my job and _my_ money that I earned with the sweat off my back! All of us need to go to Salem and demand to be heard!”

Rose shoots an apprehensive glance at me. When I clasp her hand, her whole body vibrates against me with anger.

“We don’t have to listen to this,” I whisper into her fine curtain of glossy black hair.

Her eyes tell me she’s ready to leave.

When I brush past Han, his labored breathing punctures my frustration with him like deflating a balloon. I can’t imagine letting a child go. 

_Well, perhaps I’m struggling with that very thing._

But I can’t imagine watching a child succumb to darkness.

Outside the tent, the frigid January air picks up moisture off the Columbia and pushes against us with icy, wet force. Above us, the stars gleam in serene estate, ambivalent to the sordid troubles and tumult below.

Hand in hand, Rose and I follow a gravel path winding through several dingy, portable buildings toward the main drag.

The streets of Boardman are mercifully empty.

“That was deeply disturbing,” I say, my voice sounding hollow.

“Sad that the people didn’t have anything to fall back on when they stopped producing coal,” Rose says.

“Nothing but hate, anyway,” I scoff.

“They’re scared and broke,” she says quietly. “Two things I understand.”

“Why look to some capitalist savior then?” I snarl. “Trump’s policies end up being the harshest toward people like this.”

“You’re right, but did you notice the story they’re telling themselves?” she ponders. “There was a desecration, a good guy and a bad guy.”

“That story is too simplistic, no wonder they’re so easily bamboozled.”

Rose kicks a bent beer can and it clatters down the sidewalk, clunking a trail of echoing irritation. She stops and swipes back her inky black hair, peering up at me with tension lurking in her eyes and the thin line of her lips. 

“I’m not saying I disagree, but I want to point out that we all tell ourselves simplistic stories, Hux.”

Discomfort prickles in my spine.

“Well, that feels quite pointed,” I venture cautiously. “Why have you been so quiet today?”

Rose bites her lip. Her velvet brown eyes glitter in the dim pool of light from a nearby machine shop.

“I wanted to see what _you_ would say.”

My stomach sinks.

“You’re playing games with me?”

“No!” she retorts. “I just noticed that you pivot off everything I do.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s like you’re always watching me, trying to do what I want instead of doing what _you_ want.”

My brain stumbles over what she’s saying; I feel like she’s missing the point.

“Why shouldn’t I care for you?” I say with a barbed tone.

Rose huffs.

“I can take care of myself —that’s not what I want.”

“Oh, so all this time, I’ve done nothing but insult your independence?” I snap from a wounded place inside me. _Of course she doesn’t need me._

“Well…” Her eyes widen. “Not gonna lie, it was kind of awkward that first morning when we— you know. I woke up and you acted like I was some kind of charity case.”

My chest seizes with horror. _That’s not true, you were the cold bitch!_

“I don’t remember it that way,” I say icily. “I remember you hastily gathering your things like I was some kind of miserable stain.”

“Really?” Rose drops my hand. “You spent all night fucking my brains out and then in the morning it’s back to, ‘I suppose I can get you another meeting with Holdo,’ and ‘Bring me a proposal and I’ll take it to the board.’” She leans into the stuffy affectation of my British accent.

“I don’t understand why that’s a problem —I wanted to help!” I stammer.

“Yeah, and I didn’t fuck you to get your help!” Rose explodes. Her eyes blaze with anger. “The second things got vulnerable, you clammed up and started talking about your usefulness like it was some kind of transaction! How dare you insinuate that the only reason I was in your bed was to leverage you for my fucking project!”

“I would never…” I choke. “To use my position for sex…?”

“I mean, what am I supposed to think, Hux?” she continues. “We have this wild night together and then in the morning you’re horribly distant and vague, listing off things you can do for me like I’m some kind of slut banging you for favors?”

I intake a sharp breath.

“And when I started to leave, you didn’t bother to ask why I was so hurt. You iced me out.”

Shame slams into me like a mack truck. I stare down at a dirty gutter where a crumpled cigarette box floats in a rivulet of runoff, it’s tattered edges writhing in the moving water like my innards.

Rose’s fierce breaths puff in the thin darkness like plumes of mist.

“You know, it was so humiliating for me to come to you for money,” she says darkly.

Acid floods my mouth.

“After so wounding my pride, Rey didn’t think you deserved to know about the…” Rose sighs. “But I thought you should.”

I battle between flaring up with indignation and lying down on the frozen pavement. It’s all clear now: my stupid, _stupid_ busy head had pushed her away. All my moments deliberating, not speaking my heart —I lost her that first morning and then again yesterday.

_Never again._

I break the silence.

“I’m an idiot.” 

“Yeah.” Her eyes mist over.

“I am so miserable at speaking my heart,” I waver. “I don’t want to say the wrong thing or put you in a position where you feel forced by my will. I want you to feel safe and cared for.”

“I don’t want you to take care of me,” she states firmly. “I want you to _want me_.”

She stands so still in the quiet street, I think I hear our hearts pounding.

_Rose wants me._

I take the most confident step of my life, ten inches toward her. 

She lets out a shaky exhale and I slide my hands around her warm face. Decision thumps in my chest like a drum. Against the flush of reciprocation in her cheeks and neck, my chilled fingers thaw; her pulse flutters under my touch.

“I want you, Rose Tico,” I say. 

And I kiss her.

Her lips give with a delicate burst of heat against my tongue. 

Hesitation flits away like dry chaff: I claim her mouth with all the power I’ve been holding back.

 _Deep. Savoring._

I start to withdraw, but find that I cannot. I plunge into her recklessly, ferociously, making up for lost time.

Rose murmurs like a purr as she kisses me. I soak up the taste of her delight; raking her teeth, twisting deep in her mouth and parrying our tongues. She sinks into me, sighing: her breath is a hot little wave against my skin like the hush of gentle water.

When I pull back, her eyes are like luminous pools shining up at me, deep with promise.

“I want your baby,” I declare in a hoarse whisper. “If not now, then someday. That’s your decision.”

I swallow. _She told me to say what I want._

“But I would like this one now,” I continue, “Even with the world falling apart. I want it because it’s yours, and I want you. Always.”

Her eyes glisten.

“I want you too,” she answers.

Our fingers weave together. 

“This is the shittiest time of my life to become a parent,” she laughs, choking on a sob. “But even if you had bailed on me yesterday, I kind of always felt like the little bean belongs with me.”

I think about the sonogram. About July 23rd.

“I know what you mean,” I murmur. “I won’t go, Rose.”

Each warm point of contact between our bodies wards off the icy breeze around us. A gust of wind tears at my hair, biting my face and whipping tears out of my eyes. 

But I don’t mind. 

Rose slips our clasped hands inside the cozy pockets of her coat. 

It’s a tight fit, with her belly filling most of the jacket. It’s the closest I’ve been to that tiny spark. Just inches from my hands, an entire future dreams, suspended in the peace of her soft, quiet womb.

My blood fizzes with happiness. 

We stay just like that for an immeasurable moment.

“You’re shivering,” I whisper against her forehead.

“It’s fuh-freezing out here!”

“We can’t go back to the tent,” I say, my mind racing for an alternative.

“Well, th-there’s always…” Rose nods pointedly behind me, down the street. I turn, craning my neck around so I don’t have to take my hands out of her pockets. Behind a dingy warehouse, golden arches shine like a greasy beacon.

“Oh no…”

“What?” She bumps against me teasingly. “You too good for Micky D’s?”

“It’s just—” I scrunch up my face into a pained wince. “—The cholesterol and all that!”

“Come on,” she whines. “I’m gonna freeze out here. And you won’t die of heart disease from breathing McDonald’s air!”

“I’m sure I read an Atlantic article about that very thing!” My lips curl with an unhindered smile. She laughs, clear and free as I carry on with some nonsense about grease particles in the air.

Good god, my mind will be racing from now until the day I die just to think of things to draw out that perfect, guileless laugh of hers.

When we push against the scuffed, sun-bleached doors into the restaurant, a wall of hot staleness punches me in the face. My dripping, raw nose and chapped cheeks melt with relief, but I instantly key into Rose, nervous that the terrible smell will send her running to the lavatory.

“Oh my god.” Rose heaves a dreamy sigh. “It’s been so long since I’ve had french fries.”

 _She will forever keep me guessing._ My insides warm.

Five minutes later, we’re tucked into the least sticky-looking booth with an overflowing mountain of french fries. 

Rose demanded four sauce varieties and set them all in a neat row beside the fries like an assembly line. She bathes each crispy length in one sauce like it’s a precise science and then moves on to the next packet with her next fry. It’s all very fascinating.

“You’re doing it wrong.” Rose shoots me a flirtatious look from under her dusky lashes.

“What?”

“My sister Paige and I used to eat our french fries longest to shortest.”

“And what is the utility of that, Miss Engineer?”

Rose rolls her eyes. 

“The person with the biggest fries wins, duh!”

“Then how…” I pull out the longest fry I can see. “...is this one?”

“Doesn’t count!” she taunts. “It’s broken on the top, only intact ones work!”

“Oh really?” I lift my eyebrows. “You only like intact…?” I waggle the fry suggestively at her.

“Ew… that’s gross!” 

She squeals as I make a grand show of putting it down my throat.

“You know, in England we call these ‘chips.’” I say, wiping my hands on an abrasive napkin. “I suppose I’ve lost most of my native nomenclature.”

“No way, you always sound so British,” she muses.

“That’s rubbish, I’ve lived here for ten years,” I snort. “All my mates from home say I sound like a yank.”

“Just like that! Rubbish and mates and yanks!” Her little button nose wrinkles, as if a pinched face will enhance her terrible British accent. “Cheerio and all that, wot wot!”

Her charming sweetness rushes to my head like strong liquor. My chest fills and expands until, like a balloon catching on a sharp edge, a devastating thought deflates me.

“Oh…” Rose studies me. Her knit brows tell me I’ve worn the whole mental arc on my face. ”Something wrong?”

I stab a fry into a sauce like putting out a cigarette.

“It’s nothing.” I meet her gaze again, sheepishly this time. “I just wish I could take you on a proper date.”

“We went to John’s Alley. Before...”

“No.” I claw my fingers through my hair, miserable. “A pub’s not a _proper_ date. Not one that you deserve. These soggy chips at a run-down Mackie’s in the middle of hostile territory is the closest we’ve got at the moment.”

I want to feel sorry, but the happy creases around her laughing eyes prevents me from wallowing in the melancholy of it.

“Where would you take me?” She pops her straw seductively in her mouth. “—On our ‘proper’ date?”

Rose Tico is magic.

“Oh, probably some esoteric French place in Soho, very exclusive.” My lips twitch. “Three hours. Twenty servings, each one tinier than the last. Outrageously expensive.”

“Wow,” Rose cackles, “You are one fancy guy.”

“Not really.” My throat starts to close around a lump. I reach across the table and wrap my hand around her salty little fingers. “Just ...quite besotted with you.”

Her gaze soaks with feeling, I can hardly breathe.

"Me too," she says.

"I'd like to kiss you again," I whisper, clutching her hand.

“Yeah, about that. One thing, uh… I should probably warn you.” Rose gulps. “I read about this online, but I gueeeess it’s pretty normal around uh, the second trimester to… er… be really horny. Like, _really horny.”_

I blink at her, speechless.

“You’ve been driving me crazy!” she blurts. “Like, I can’t rub them out fast enough!”

I choke with shock.

“When have you… oh nevermind!”

Her eyes light up with a feral glint that makes me nervous.

“We could sneak into the bathroom!” she whispers.

“Are you…” I duck my head, looking around. “Surely you’re joking, you do not want to copulate in McDonald’s bathroom?”

“Well, geez, when you use the word ‘copulate’...” 

Rose fake gags.

“Come on,” she says. “Think of it as like, a bucket list thing.”

“I’d rather not end my bucket list by catching whatever illnesses linger on those filthy surfaces,” I moan.

I’m arguing with her, but a surging throb in my lap is not.

“Please! It was total torture cuddling with you all day, I know you felt it too!”

She’s not wrong.

I sit back and let her hold me in that tense electricity crackling between us. Her lips part, her breaths deepen, the black pupils in her eyes expand with lust. The strangled exhales catching in my throat tells me I’m falling under her spell too.

“Fine.” I give in.

What can I say?

I want Rose Tico.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me all the things. What did you think about the backstory? THE MAKE-UP!
> 
> Also, how are you doing? How's the lockdown burnout treating you?
> 
> Smut next time, my preciouses.

**Author's Note:**

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> 
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